BEYOND ARMAGEDDON

Book I: Disintegration

By Anthony DeCosmo

Best Plans

“While warmer souls command, nay, make their fate,

Thy fate made thee, and forc’d thee to be great.”

–Moore

The four Philadelphia Tactical Team officers wore black body armor and Nomex balaclavas. The element leader stood apart from the others by virtue of her icy blue eyes.

“Alpha team, this is Bravo, we’re in DeVos Hall and moving to the theater. No sign tango.”

First static, then a reply via her tactical headset: “Roger that, Bravo. We’re in the lobby. Heard something a minute ago. Nina, watch your back.”

She moved her team around the bloody remains of the Animal Control Officer and into the Kimmel Theater: a funnel-like multi-media presentation area with stadium seating. Dormant movie screens mounted high on the outer walls behind and above the seats circled the room; a solitary spotlight illuminated the central area at the bottom of the theater, providing the only light inside the seemingly empty chamber.

“Night.”

Each of the officers slipped on bulky night vision goggles. As they did, Nina could have sworn she heard a noise.

A grunt…or something…

They split into pairs and searched the descending rows of seats.

From her earpiece, a voice broadcast: “Bravo, we’re en route to your location. We’ll be coming in the upper doors, east side. E-T-A one minute.”

“Copy, Alpha, but we might just have our—”

An object flew across the theater. She turned her head to follow the flight of that object but pointed her night goggles directly into the light at the center of the chamber. The night vision overloaded.

Nina cursed her stupidity and yanked off the goggles and balaclava, freeing wavy blond hair tied tight in a short ponytail.

On the floor inside the circle of light at the base of the theater lay the thrown object: a twisted, broken person wearing black body armor.

She turned to her right and scanned the rows of seats seeing only a shadow.

No, two shadows one taller and wider than the first.

With her goggles on again she caught a glimpse. The first shadow sported the elongated snout of a predator and flailed its prey—the second shadow—with all manner of nasty appendages. Still, the view through the night vision offered a grainy green silhouette, no real detail. She did not need more detail to understand that the big thing held the shredded remains of a policeman.

Nina raised her Mp5 and squeezed the trigger. Her partner followed suit.

The shadow jumped straight up, moving fast enough to dodge the deadly fire. Pursuing rounds sparked off the ceiling in a lightning storm while the thing scurried away on all fours…upside down…and disappeared on the far side of the central spotlight.

“What the hell was that?” Her partner—a big guy with an Italian accent—lost his composure.

Not Nina. She remained focused on the mission. Her mind analyzed and evaluated the situation, speedily formulating tactical options and counter-measures.

She spoke into her headset: “Tango! Tango! Listen, something is in here. Some kind… a big animal or something. I’ve got two men tits up.”

“What? Is this some sort of—”

“Secure the theater from the outside!”

Her partner gasped, “Are you crazy? We need them in here backing us up!”

“Sal, we can handle this. Look, we have to shoot out the spotlight.”

She grabbed Sal by the arm and hauled him up the stairs to the top ring of the theater. Once there Nina raised her weapon and fired at the light until it exploded in a flash of sparks. Those sparks flickered and faded, taking with them the lone obstruction to their night vision.

After a moment, she spied their quarry. The artificial illumination of the goggles revealed a distant, blurry shape hanging from the wall on the far side of the theater.

“Loading.” Her weapon needed a fresh magazine.

It sensed the moment of vulnerability and—ignoring gravity—galloped sideways on the wall directly toward the two officers. Toward her.

“It’s coming!”

Thirty yards.

“Merda!” Sal yelled. “I’m jammed!”

Of course, she thought. This one is meant for me…only me…

Nina calmly ejected the spent magazine.

Twenty yards.

Accelerating as it closed for the kill, the blob grew larger and better defined in the grainy image painted by the night vision. Nina saw pumping legs and glints of eyes locked on its next victim. Locked on her.

She yanked a full magazine from her ammo belt.

Ten yards.

She rammed the reload home with a satisfying sharp click.

The creature leapt from the wall as if it were a mountain lion pouncing from a cliff.

Its mouth opened…razor-like appendages reached…

Nina pulled the trigger.

*

“Dick!”

A grating, painful voice—the voice of the Sales Manager—startled Rich from a daze.

“Dick!”

Shoes clickety-clacked across a quiet showroom.

Rich slid off his swivel chair and emerged from his cubicle.

“Yes, Mr. Munroe?”

Mr. Monroe, standing in front of one of the many “No Smoking” signs lining the walls of the auto mall, held half a cigar in one hand and pointed through a drifting cloud of smelly smoke at Rich with the other.

“Have you seen Bobby Weston? Have you?”

Rich had been stuck in his cubicle—an unproductive place, Mr. Munroe would certainly point out—for nearly an hour researching blue book values. Instead of explaining this, he simply told his boss, “No.”

“Well there’s a gal here to pick up a car Bobby sold her last week and we can’t have her standing around with nothing to drive. For Christ’s sake, this car is paid for. Let’s get her out the door already.”

Of course, the rant served to remind that Bobby Weston had sold a car recently and Rich had not. Yet Richard did not need reminding after weeks of writing checks for flowers, rings, and wedding reception halls. The number next to the word ‘balance’ in his checkbook descended dangerously closer to zero each day while his weekly draw played sourly on his boss’ nerves.

Mr. Munroe jammed the cigar into the corner of his mouth but did not suggest a course of action.

“What do you want me to do?” Rich suppressed a cough as he spoke.

Mr. Munroe’s face twisted, his saggy eyes bulged, and the top of his balding head grew red.

“What do I want you to do? Why I want you to go find this paying-customer’s car keys and get her out of the showroom to make room for the next prospect. You know the one you might sell something to.”

Rich sighed and maneuvered around Mr. Munroe. His own shoes clickety-clacked off the showroom floor. He rounded a Trailblazer and there stood the paying customer who needed hustling along.

As he approached the well-dressed young blond woman, he forced a phony smile. Her sweet but strong perfume pushed aside the lingering acrid scent of Mr. Munroe’s cigar.

“Where’s Bobby Weston? I’m waiting for Bobby Weston.”

Rich recognized this particular paying customer. His grin, fueled by familiarity, grew genuine. The woman, however, wore a frown. An impatient frown.

“Sheila? Sheila Evans?”

His knowing her name threw the impatient paying customer off balance.

“Yes…?”

Rich thrust a thumb into his chest.

“Richard Stone—Rich…I mean, Dick Stone. We graduated from Lehman High together. You were a cheerleader…I was a on the football team.”

Third string free safety he did not add.

“Oh.”

“So,” he pushed forward, “howya doing?”

“Very good, thank you. And you?”

“Not bad, getting married next month and—”

“Bobby sold me a red Corvette. He told me it would be ready.”

“Corvette? Oh yes, nice car in fact—”

“Is my car ready? I’ve got to meet my boyfriend at Milano’s in twenty minutes.”

Everyone knew Milano’s restaurant plated fifty-dollar entrées and offered the best wine list in northeastern Pennsylvania.

Rich realized the conversation had been doomed before his first words.

“I’ll call the detailing shop.”

“It’s the red one with the premium audio system.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is.”

*

A silver Malibu with a ‘dealer’ license plate bolted from the Edgar Chevrolet auto mall and stopped at a traffic light where a sign warned in authoritative letters, NO TURN ON RED.

Tractor-trailers, passenger cars, and motorcycles raced by on their way to unknown destinations, all while Rich idled. That, he figured, told the story of his life.

For years he held the uncanny feeling of waiting for some event, some twist of fate. During high school, he thought he waited for graduation. Commencement came and went without any revelations, no unlocked hidden purpose.

Maybe he waited for college? Sure, his business degree would open the world of entrepreneurism and take him on a new adventure to wealth and happiness.

The diploma came. So did a job selling cars.

What did he wait for this time?

Richard’s impending marriage to Ashley promised drastic change but he could not convince himself great revelations would soon follow.

However, as he obeyed the red light it was not his waiting that concerned him. Instead, he worried about Ashley waiting at her house for him; waiting to discuss seating arrangements and centerpieces; waiting for Rich to “show the least bit of interest” in the most important day in her life.

He did not want to think about that. He turned on the car radio.

“…this poor central African nation lacks the resources to launch an investigation in such a remote area. However, there is no denying the similarity between the disappearance of an entire village of nearly fifty people here and disappearances in both Thailand and Norway over the last two days. In each case, the only clues left behind were piles of shed clothing, as if the people had been vaporized into thin air.

“Coverage of these unexplained events has made the jump from the tabloids to newspaper headlines in the European and Asian media. Thus far, U.S. officials have refused comment on the incidents. However, pressure is growing for the President to address—”

Rich switched to a classic rock station, swapping news of the weird for the Rolling Stones. He did not need news of the weird from a radio. He heard weirdness enough from a panicked and over-worked fiancée as she micro-managed every morsel of minutia in planning for the most perfect of wedding days.

The light remained red.

Rich looked left. Rich looked right. The tractor-trailers, passenger cars, SUVs and motorcycles had moved on.

In a daring act, he pressed gently on the accelerator. The car inched forward. He cranked the steering wheel to the right…he spotted the Wilkes-Barre Police car in the hotel parking lot across the street. The cop eyed the dealer-plated Chevrolet, anticipating the imminent violation.

Rich eased off the gas and resigned himself to waiting a while longer.

*

A knot tightened in Richard’s stomach as he closed the car door, a knot born from the sight of Ashley’s father on the porch glider.

Some called him Benjamin. Rich called him “Mr. Trump” or sometimes “Sir.”

Richard walked the half-circle driveway in front of the modular home and climbed the unpainted wooden stairs. An early bat swooped overhead, cutting through the June twilight above the duplex-laden suburb.

“Hi, Mr. Trump.”

Benjamin Trump, holding a beer in one hand, glanced at the silver watch bound to his thin left arm.

“Runnin’ a bit late, Dick?”

As with everyone else on the planet, Mr. Trump made Rich’s nickname sound more an insult.

“Had to finish up with a customer.”

Richard’s explanation carried as much weight as a humbled third grader weaving a tale of dogs and devoured homework.

“Is Ashley ‘round?”

A dumb question. Rich knew better, but in the presence of dad-in-law his speech, tones, and delivery of punch lines were shaky at best. In fairness, not all the fault lay with Benjamin Trump. Whenever alone with Ashley’s dad, Rich kept waiting for the old man to lay it on the line: “I know you’ve been having sex with my daughter.”

So, yes, Ashley was around and both Richard and Benjamin Trump knew this to be the case. However, Mr. Trump’s response surprised Dick: “She’s up stairs throwing up.”

Trump drank from his Coors Original and stared out at the falling sun.

“Oh.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Dick,” the statement lacked a question mark.

Richard threw his eyes toward the front door, “Um…”

“It’s okay. She’ll be down when she’s feeling better. Just nerves, you know.”

“Yeah,” Rich confessed as he cautiously shuffled closer to a wicker chair near the glider. “I get them, too. I mean, not that I’ve thrown up. But there are times when—”

“I like you, Dick. I really do. I don’t say it a lot cause, well, I don’t say that to anybody a lot. I figure you know I like you. No need to go ‘round hugging or anything, right?”

Richard folded his hands on his lap.

“I, um, suppose—”

“But more important my daughter likes you and I want her to be nothing but happy.”

Richard tried to return the expected volley, “I love you too. I mean, I love Ashley too and I like you, too. Well, I guess you’re going to be family so—”

“Right. Anyway, I want you to know that if you ever need anything I’ll be right here for you. Me and my wife, we’ll be right here.”

He relaxed and replied to his soon-to-be dad-in-law, “I appreciate that.”

“But I won’t loan you money.”

“What?”

Mr. Trump repeated, “I won’t loan you money. Sure, we’re chipping in on the wedding but you’re responsible for paying the bills, am I clear?”

“Did Ashley suggest that we—or I—might need—”

“You strike me as the dependable type. I know you aren’t ever going to go runnin’ around on my daughter and I know you’ll change a crap-filled diaper when little ones start crawling around. I know your dad, too. He’s a good guy even if he’s from the boonies.”

Benjamin Trump meant the rural areas of northeast Pennsylvania as opposed to the neighborhoods, such as Mr. Trump’s, that served as suburbs for the little city of Wilkes-Barre.

Rich tried to slip a word in.

“I will do whatever I can for Ashley.”

“But I’m looking at you and thinking here’s the guy who’s going to marry my daughter, he’s got a college degree—okay, community college degree—and he’s selling Chevys. Now that isn’t going to feed the bull dog.”

“Bull dog?”

Benjamin Trump cast his stern brown eyes at Richard.

“Are you following me, Dick?”

“Um…no.”

“You need to find some ambition.”

“Ambition? Sir?”

“You need to brush up that resume, get yourself full of piss and vinegar and go out there knocking on doors. When I was your age, I was helping my dad in the family business. I took that little business and grew it into the fourth largest fence company in Luzerne County. You walk around this valley and you’ll see Trump fences that me and my dad built thirty years ago. That’s because I had the ambition to make something that lasts.”

Rich swallowed hard.

“I think Ashley—your daughter—and I are building something that lasts.”

“Don’t throw that stuff around me, Dick. I’m not some goofy woman wonderin’ if the fruit cup gets served before the salad.”

“No, Sir.”

“I’m talking about you providing for your family. I’m talking about you providing for my daughter and little Benjamin and little Carol Anne. You’re gunna have mouths to feed and vacations to the Jersey shore to pay for. What are the chances that selling Chevys is going to get that all done?”

The front door of the house creaked open. Richard nearly cried tears of joy. Mother and daughter drifted onto the porch.

Benjamin Trump acknowledged, “Ashley, Carol Anne.”

“Hello,” Carol Anne Trump spoke.

“Hi, Mrs., Trump,” Rich answered politely but his attention belonged to Ashley.

She wore long dark hair and watched the world through green eyes that could penetrate any heart. Her figure fit oh-so-wonderfully into faded blue jeans and a yellow halter-top. All her proportions had been measured with care by nature and cultivated into a stunning young beauty who had attracted a legion of admirers over the years.

Those penetrating green eyes narrowed to a scowl. Her naturally soft voice hardened with a question that sounded more an accusation.

“Running late?”

“Give the boy a break,” Mr. Trump winked at Rich. “He was with a customer.”

*

He pulled his hand from Ashley’s leg and rubbed his eyes.

The couple sat at the kitchen table under a solitary cone of light. A constant, electronic buzz came from the hard-working refrigerator but otherwise the room remained silent, as it had for over three hours of reception planning.

Ashley’s seating assignment maneuvers had grown in complexity with each passing minute, rising to a level best appreciated by chess masters and Generals. Richard, conversely, played a spectator’s role with occasional mumbles of ‘sounds good,’ ‘doesn’t matter to me’ and ‘why are most of my relatives at the back of the hall?’

His energy waned. Ashley’s energy waned too, but determination and focus hid her fatigue.

“I think that about does it,” she whispered and nodded slowly in approval, as if convinced she had reached the final solution. Such had been her expression the night before and the night before that. By tomorrow, he knew, she would find a hole in her strategy and the slips of paper representing guests and tables would march again.

Her thoughts found new focus and she asked, “Oh, how do you want to be introduced?”

“Wouldn’t it be Mister and Misses Stone?”

Her shoulders slumped and a tired sigh slipped from her lips.

“I was thinking I’d like my full name to be used. You know, Ashley Elizabeth.”

Richard tried to understand, “So the DJ will introduce us as Mr. Richard Trevor Stone and his wife Ashley Eliza—”

She shook her head ‘no’.

“More like, Ashley Elizabeth and Richard Stone…”

“Richard Trevor Stone.”

“No, no, no,” she insisted. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“But that’s my name. Richard Trevor Stone. I know you might have forgotten since you forgot to put it on the invitations.”

She blinked fast, bit her lip, and sniffled.

“Now that’s not fair. I honestly forgot. I don’t know why you’re so upset. I’m under a lot of pressure doing all this by myself.”

Richard closed his eyes and placed an arm around her shoulders. She stopped babbling and slumped into his hug.

“You’re not doing this by yourself. We’re doing this together. It’s just that my middle name is important to me. And it’s important to my dad. My grandpa—”

“I know, I know. He fought at Normandy. War hero. I know.”

“It’s a lot better than ‘Dick’, don’t you think?”

“Well…” she led.

He tickled her ribs. She giggled to the point of outright laughing, something she had not done in days.

“So,” Richard restarted the conversation after she thwarted his tickles, “we get introduced and then all the other couples walk in.”

Ashley fidgeted; squirmed even.

“What? What is it?”

She answered too nonchalantly, “I figured we’d just have the DJ introduce us and let the rest of the wedding party seat themselves. That will make things move faster.”

His eyes narrowed. The groom-to-be aired the real reason why she suggested such an untraditional change to an otherwise traditional wedding: “You don’t want people to see Dante walking with your sister.”

She shuddered in feigned shock.

“No, no that’s not it.”

“Then your parents don’t want their daughter walking with him.”

“Well, I mean, um, don’t you think he’d be, well, uncomfortable?”

“No, I don’t. And he’s my best man. And he’s my best friend. And I don’t care if some people in your family don’t want to see a black guy walking with a white girl in a wedding. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe your sister cares so why should anyone else?”

“She doesn’t care. I was just thinking…”

“Don’t, Ashley. I’m not asking for much in all this,” he swept his hand above the seating chart, “but I’m not going to screw over Dante just because you’ve got bigots in your family.”

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut and her soft skin blushed with embarrassment.

Her tone begged forgiveness, “You know it’s not me, right?”

“I know,” he hugged her again. “Let’s take a break. We’ve been at this a while.”

She agreed, stood, and led him away from the wedding plans and into the lightless living room. Despite the dark, he found the television remote control by instinct and powered on the set. The plush sofa flickered in television light. The couple sunk deep into the couch.

“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”

“Sure, as long as I start showing some ambition. We can’t have little Ben and Carol Ann crawling around with dirty diapers, right?”

Her eyes widened.

A voice from the television interrupted: “…State police say it’s as if all the drivers took their feet off the gas pedal at the same time. No skid marks whatsoever.”

A camera followed a short-sleeved reporter across a stretch of highway. Red and blue lights flashed off canyon-like rock faces on either side of the road. The reporter stopped and pointed toward a tangled mass of vehicles. Fire trucks and police cars surrounded the mess.

“This is an isolated area. Westbound traffic on Interstate 80 would not have seen what happened here because of rocks, cliffs, and trees. The only evidence left behind is the empty clothes of the victims, who were probably driving along at over sixty miles per hour when something happened. It is an eerie, almost serene sight—lacking the carnage usually associated with highway pile-ups.

“EMS has counted thirty vehicles but no persons, no remains, no blood—not a clue as to what happened. Authorities will attempt to identify the missing persons from license plates and VIN numbers. A command post has been established at the nearby State Police barracks in Milton.”

Ashley gasped aloud. Richard shuddered.

They knew Milton to be barely a thirty-minute drive from where they sat.

The news of the weird had reached their corner of the world.

Shadows

Rich and his demo car left the suburbs of Wilkes-Barre and headed into the mountains and forests surrounding the valley. The high beam headlights cut through the pitch-black night revealing lonely, boring black top and monotonous double yellow lines encased in walls of featureless woodlands.

Sporadic flashes of light danced behind the clouds overhead. Rich guessed the flashes to be the summer phenomena known as ‘heat lighting.’ Those distant and dull flickers lacked the power to brighten the countryside and served only to heighten a feeling of isolation.

The glow of the gauges reflected off Rich’s tired eyes. The digital clock on the stereo showed 12:30 a.m.

With nothing but trees, hills, and the occasional stream to serve as landmarks most travelers would find the area a bland, confusing maze. To Richard Stone—a life long resident of the “Back Mountain” section of the Wyoming Valley in Pennsylvania—those roads traveled familiar ground. Over the years, he had crisscrossed those roads and the surrounding wilderness on dirt bikes and snowmobiles.

He made his way through almost automatically, concentrating more on watching for suicidal white tail deer than on direction. He could probably drive the route blindfolded.

AM talk radio broadcast from the stereo. The host and his callers fed on the rash of disappearances like frenzied sharks.

“Grant from Brooklyn, you’re on.”

“I think the government gots a new ex-pair-mental lazer to keep our population down. We’re using up all da water ‘n stuff, ya know?”

The host responded, “Oh now that’s just beautiful. I guess the Norwegians were overpopulated, too. It’s not a death ray, Grant. I think it’s a bunch of green-skinned Martian-types snatching up specimens for their zoo. I’d even believe our last caller more than you, the one who thinks it’s judgment day and God is just taking his time.”

Richard turned off the radio. He had heard nothing other than theories and conspiracies and biblical references since leaving Ashley’s couch.

Enough.

Instead of the radio, Richard selected the CD changer on the stereo. The soothing tone of Patsy Cline’s Walking After Midnight eased through the cabin and filled Richard with a hint of calm.

He listened to a series of her greatest hits, songs his mother and father had introduced to him years ago. Songs that had filled the cabin of their family car during long Thanksgiving trips to Granny’s house across state near Pittsburgh: five hours of Patsy Cline, young Elvis, and Buddy Holly.

What might sound an eclectic cross section of artists to some all held the same place in Richard’s mind. The music conjured more than simple images; it conjured feelings of affection and warmth. The songs served as a reminder of his connection to his family. A reminder of the memories and experiences they shared. He could nearly smell fresh-baked pumpkin pie drifting in the melody.

By the time Patsy finished Sweet Dreams, that monotonous blacktop weaving through those featureless forests arrived at his driveway.

Richard steered on to the partially hidden path cut through those thick forests. The tires of the sedan rumbled over the gravel drive as it ascended a soft slope until reaching the clearing surrounding his family’s cedar home.

A simple two-car garage sat perpendicular to the house. A solitary bulb hung between the bay doors and carved a globe of bright out of the otherwise dark lot. Another light joined the first when the motion of his car activated a security spotlight atop the front porch.

He guided the Malibu to a quiet stop at the foot of the steps behind the Blazer belonging to his dad.

His father’s career had changed from truck driver to well-paid mid-level manager five years ago. That had been ten years after founding a private trucking company. A larger conglomerate had bought the small-but-growing company. Dad’s reward had not only been a lump of cash but a desk job with good pay and hours to make a banker envious.

Mom worked part time at the Arthritis Foundation for charity, not income. She made it home by six every night No doubt her Miata rested safely inside the closed garage next to dad’s partially assembled classic Mustang.

Rich swung open the car door, stood, and shivered. The late June night had felt warm when leaving Ashley’s but out there—in the “boonies”—the thermometer read lower.

The heavy thud of the car door closing echoed across the night, possibly the first artificial sound in hours. He took two steps toward the wide, sweeping porch. The stone and dirt mix of the clearing crunched underfoot. Another shimmer of ‘heat lightning’ flickered through the heavens.

He heard a noise. Not quite the noise of thunder, but similar, and it came from the forest. Something out there moved, barely beyond the reach of the homestead’s lights.

Something big. Something gigantic.

Rich’s brain struggled to decode what he saw: a mass of black nearly as tall as the oldest Oak on their property and lurking behind the first rows of trees in the forest.

That slightly chilled June breeze blew through him like a sharp arctic gale. That familiar forest twisted into a strange, warped place.

Most of it remained hidden beyond the screen of trees. He glimpsed only a tiny fraction of the whole. What he saw made no sense: a black, scaly wall.

A feeling of insignificance fell over him with tremendous weight, so much so that his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Fear kept him in place, out-dueling an impulse to seek a hiding spot. He had become a puny ant in the shadow of a massive elephant, thankfully small enough not to warrant attention.

The intruder grunted a noise—maybe an exhale—low enough to tremble the ground, followed by a muffled crunch as unseen weight stomped on the forest floor. A vibrant crack told of a snapping tree limb. The wall of black faded away with not nearly enough noise to accommodate such mass.

When he finally drew breath again, fear grabbed him by the spine and sent a violent shake from the top of his head to the toes of his feet. Air gasped from his lungs as he vomited oxygen. His legs wobbled.

Richard stumbled backward, unable to pull his eyes from the forest. His feet struck the bottom steps and found footing. Up…up then across the landing. He fumbled the door open and staggered in, still walking backwards; still with his eyes locked on the spot where a living wall of black had touched his reality.

He closed the door, locked it tight, and turned.

Two low, bushy shadows raced into the living room.

Dick gasped in fright…then lowered his head in embarrassment.

The black and gray Norwegian Elkhounds hurried past their best friend and hopped onto the sofa under the bay windows. ‘Tyr’ and ‘Odin’ focused their attention on the same stretch of woodland that had served a sight of horrors to Richard.

Nothing outside moved.

After a few moments, Tyr fixed his eyes on his Master. The question in the dog’s expression came across so clear that Rich could have sworn the animal spoke.

What was it?

“I don’t know what it was,” Richard replied then grinned to himself for answering an unvoiced question. “But tomorrow morning I’m going to tell myself it was the wind or it was a bear or my over active imagination. But it wasn’t any of those, was it? Because you two heard it and smelled it, didn’t you?”

A clear answer formed in the dog’s expression.

Yes.

*

Rich woke early even though he did not need to be at work again until Saturday. Mr. Munroe would have to manage for a day by himself.

He swung his naked legs out from under the cozy comforter, covered his briefs with sweat pants and found a loose-fitting navy-blue T-shirt. He left his small room for the second floor hall then descended the rear stairs to the eat-in kitchen. There he found his father and mother acting out their morning routines.

“What are you doing up?”

The question came from his mother. She wore a big, comfy white robe that dragged across the linoleum floor as she ferried a coffeepot between the counter top and mugs on the table. The fragrance of that fresh-brewed java mixed with the lingering aroma of a toasted bagel to fill the room with a rich, welcoming scent.

His dad asked without pulling his attention from the newspaper, “Not workin’ today?”

“No, no.”

A yawn distorted Rich’s answer as he shuffled across the kitchen.

“Bagel?” Mom, who prepped her own with cream cheese, offered.

After politely waving her off, he sat across from his father and spied the headline on the newspaper in his dad’s hands: CLOSE TO HOME.

“Strange stuff, huh?”

“Uh-huh,” dad mumbled.

“George, your son is trying to talk to you,” mom said as she placed her bagel on the table.

“Oh, yes, sorry.”

Dad closed the newspaper, scratched his curly brown hair—something he did when perplexed—and clasped his hands atop the table.

“So, how’s the planning coming? Is Miss Ashley’s perfect day coming along as perfectly as could possibly be planned?”

The smile he flashed assured the sarcasm was not mean spirited. Nonetheless, George earned a light slap on his shoulder from the misses.

“That’s not nice,” Kelly Stone said. “It’s a big day.”

“Oh yes, I know,” George reached over, grabbed his wife’s arm, and playfully spun the slender women onto his lap with a laugh. “You were the biggest little princess of them all. The dresses, the centerpieces, even the way you wanted your bridesmaids to carry their flowers. You were absolutely obsessive.”

“Well, I,” George cut her off by kissing her cheek. Mom blushed and scurried to her chair.

“Actually, this isn’t about the wedding.”

No more smiles.

“Last night, when I came home…I don’t know…maybe I’ve got an imagination…”

“What is it, dear?”

“So what was it you imagined?”

“Look, no laughing, okay? When I got home last night, I saw something moving out in the woods across from the front porch. I don’t know what it was, but it was huge. I mean, really friggin’ big.”

“So how ‘friggin’ big’ was it?” George took the obvious line but failed to lighten his son’s mood.

“Dad, I mean, you know I’ve been out there and seen bear and deer and everything else, right?”

“Richard Stone,” his dad forced the issue. “Tell me what you saw.”

The young man swallowed hard.

“I don’t know what it was. I didn’t see all of it. But it was gigantic, like bigger than an elephant or something. Bigger than the house. But I could only see its side—it was like a big black wall of something moving.”

They did not respond.

Richard conceded, “Maybe it was a bear.”

His father tapped the newspaper. “There’s a lot of strange things going on right now, and some of it is getting close to home.”

“The dogs,” Kelly Stone stared at her cream cheese-covered bagel as if hesitant to confess a sin. “I let them out the back door this morning but as soon as they were outside they ran around the front. So I walked to the living room to see. I figured maybe someone was out there. They ran straight across the lot and over to the woods. Right where you would’ve been looking, I’ll bet.”

George Stone leaned in his chair and twisted his facial expressions back and forth as if in deep thought.

Rich begged for information, “So? So what the hell is going on?” They were, of course, his parents and no matter how old he would ever get they would know the answers to these types of questions…right?

Mom silently bit into her cream cheese bagel. Dad scratched his curly brown hair.

*

Dante Jones drank the last gulp of beer from a frosted mug.

“Are you going to have another?” Rich, who had emptied his own mug a minute before, asked.

Dante did not answer immediately. His attention lay with the big screen TV behind the horseshoe shaped bar. Geraldo Rivera reported from somewhere in the Middle East, but that is not what held Dante’s eyes. He followed the constant crawl of headlines as they rolled endlessly along the bottom of the screen.

…PRESIDENT TO ADDRESS NATION AT 4 PM EST…MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL SUSPENDS ALL GAMES UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE…FAMILY MEMBERS OF CUBS FANS SWARM WRIGLEY FIELD…

“Yeah,” Dante finally answered, embracing the idea of another beer. “Damn straight, man.”

“What is this? Is this the end of the world?”

Dante said, “No. Might be the beginning of the end.”

“Whaddya mean?”

Rich knew Dante had a flare for the dramatic. Just as important, when it came to their relationship Dante was the one in charge, the one with the answers. Good friends, sure, but Dante played the lead role of Starsky, or Crockett, or Ponch. Rich had to be content as Hutch, Tubbs, or John.

“If this was the end, it’d be over by now. This might be the start, though, you know? Like, before long, we’ll see where this is going.”

…WITNESSES AT DISNEY WORLD CLAIM PARK ATTENDANT WAS ATTACKED BY A TEN-FOOT TALL ‘DINOSAUR CREATURE’…ORLANDO AUTHORITIES DISMISS EYE WITNESS ACCOUNTS AS HYSTERIA AND SUGGEST AN ALLIGATOR WAS RESPONSIBLE…

Dante waved to the bar waitress who approached the table with her head slung low and hints of water in her eyes. Everyone in the restaurant and on the streets shared her solemn disposition, a disposition deepening with each new story of a mass disappearance or strange sighting. Twenty-four hours prior, those stories were oddities but they now rolled in from the media with increasing frequency.

Dante asked her, “Hey, you okay?”

She sniffled, nodded, and guessed they wanted, “Two more?”

“Yeah…please,” Richard dared answer for them both.

“And keep them coming,” Dante added.

She walked away between rows of crowded tables, her head still low.

…BRITISH GOVERNMENT DENIES THAT SECURITY AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE WAS BREACHED BY A ‘MONSTER’ LAST NIGHT AS REPORTED BY A MEMBER OF THE PALACE’S SERVICE STAFF… NATIONAL CONSTITUTION MUSEUM IN PHILADELPHIA REMAINS CLOSED AFTER INCIDENT YESTERDAY INVOLVING A WILD ‘ANIMAL’ THAT KILLED SEVERAL PEOPLE INCLUDING TWO POLICE OFFICERS…

Richard pondered, “First the disappearances, now people seeing things.”

“People? You mean people like you?”

“I guess so.”

“Watch your back. When things start going bad, it’s not just the weird stuff you got to worry about, you know?”

Rich did not know.

Dante explained, “Other people, man. Did you ever stop to think about what would happen if there weren’t any cops on the streets? What happens when people start turning on their televisions and get nothing but static? You think it’s bad when we’re getting all the news? Think about what’s going to happen when people don’t get any of it; when all they get is dead air.”

“You think it’s going to come to that?”

“Man, I’ll tell you what I would do if I were you,” Dante leaned forward. “I’d go and get your honey and find somewhere to lay low for a couple of days to see where all this is heading.”

Richard shook his head.

“I can’t do that. I’ve got work tomorrow. I’ve got things I got to do.”

“Work? Are you kidding me? Work? The world is falling apart and you’re going to sell cars?”

“Dante, it’s my job. Are you walking away from your job? What if all this blows over?”

Jones threw his hands up in exasperation.

“Have you been watching the news?”

…SECRETARY OF STATE URGES AMERICANS TO CANCEL OVERSEAS TRAVEL PLANS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE…NYSE HALTS TRADING AFTER RECORD DROP IN THE SIX MINUTES FOLLOWING THE REPORTED MASS DISAPPEARANCE AT WRIGLEY FIELD…

“I hear it. I’m scared. But I’ve got a wedding coming up.”

“Man, you better start changing the way you think,” Dante warned.

Rich said, “I’m trying to deal with reality here. And the reality is that I’ve got responsibilities and bills.”

Dante grinned and shook his head in a familiar manner; a manner suggesting he heard words so moronic he could only laugh.

“I think we’re about to find out that our cars and our big cities and our complicated tax code and must-see TV is all a fantasy. I think reality is coming right at us. I don’t think we’re going to like it.”

*

Ashley paced from one end of the porch to the other, weaving between the wicker chair and glider. She barely noticed Dick’s Malibu as it stopped in front of the house.

Rich jogged to the stairs then hopped on to the porch in two bounds. Ashley paced over to him, threw her arms around her future husband and buried her head into his chest.

“Tell me it’s going to be okay.”

Rich’s mouth opened and wavered.

A late afternoon breeze punctuated his silence, blowing lazily across the porch. Sounds rode the wind: horns and rumbling traffic, music from car stereos and shouts across playgrounds. All those sounds had traveled far to find their ears. Ashley’s neighborhood seemed an isolated enclave separate from the rest of the world. Rich imagined the porch a theater and those distant noises playing on a back stage phonograph.

She pleaded, “Tell me this is all one big bad dream and that everything will be all right and the wedding will go on like we planned.”

Rich shook away thoughts of theaters and phony soundtracks to focus on reality. Yes, reality, no matter what Dante said. He pulled her away from his chest to search her eyes. He found more red than green.

“Everything will be fine. Our wedding is going to be perfect. Your cousins aren’t going to fight and your dad is going to dance with you at the reception. It’s going to be beautiful and you’re going to be the most beautiful bride, ever. Period.”

Ashley sobbed softly.

“All…those…people…”

The front door creaked as it swung open. Rich nodded a polite hello to Mr. Trump.

“Well that about does it,” Ashley’s dad informed. “The President says not to panic so I sure ain’t panicking.”

“What else did he say?”

“All military leave has been cancelled and the President is on his way to a ‘secure’ location—probably Cheyenne Mountain I expect. He’s upped the alert status of all military forces and slapped price freezes on gasoline and food.”

Rich sneered, “Glad to see no one is panicking.”

“Gotta take precautions ‘course.”

“Of course…” Stone chewed on an idea. “Ashley, why don’t you get some things together and come stay at my parents’ house? Out there, away from town, might be a little safer, you know?”

She pulled away and gaped at him.

“You can stay in one of the guest rooms. Your parents could come, too, there’s plenty of room.”

“No, Sir,” Benjamin Trump left no room for misunderstanding. “My home is my castle. You’ll understand that when you have your own home someday.”

Richard felt a vibration in his front pocket from his cell phone.

“Dad’s right,” Ashley agreed because her dad’s presence allowed nothing else. “I’ll stay here. It wouldn’t be right—so close to our wedding day—to be sleeping under the same roof.”

“I can take care of my family, young man,” Trump insisted.

The vibration of his phone changed to an annoying loud buzz.

Rich tried, “Don’t you think—”

“It’s about standing your ground. About doing the right thing.”

Richard tried to ignore his phone but both Benjamin and Ashley glared, as if asking, well are you going to answer that?

Dick reluctantly opened his flip phone.

“Hello…hey. Hi, Lori…”

Ashley grunted. Of course, Lori—an old friend of Dick’s—would interrupt their important conversation.

“He what? When? You’re kidding me. I’ll be there in twenty minutes; I’m at Ashley’s right now. Okay. Bye.”

Richard closed his phone and explained, “I’ve got to go. Jon just—”

Ashley waived her hand dismissing his explanation. “Go ahead if you have to. I don’t care.” She turned fast and stomped inside.

“She’s upset,” Benjamin Trump stated the obvious. “I’ll calm her down. You go take care of whatever is more important right now.”

Rich nodded, skipped down the front stairs, then stopped. He swiveled about and addressed his future father-in-law.

“One thing I’ve always wanted to ask you, Mr. Trump.”

“What’s that, Dick?”

“The fourth biggest fence company in the county, right?”

Trump smirked smugly and nodded.

Dick questioned, “So why didn’t you ever build a fence around your own home?”

*

Jon and Lori Brewer lived in the same ‘boonies’ the Stones called home, albeit along a different path through those non-distinct country roads.

The front of their home faced the snaking pavement of a rural route while the tall grass and rampant wild flowers of their back yard bordered thick wilderness. The quaint old cottage home oozed country charm as thick as molasses with potted plants and wind chimes dangling from the covered stoop.

Rich’s tires raised dust as he pulled into the small patch of dirt that served as both the Brewers’ driveway. He parked next to their white Explorer. Dick suspected Jon had purposely chosen a Ford over a Chevy, just for spite.

He rapped on the front door then walked inside without waiting for an invitation: knocking served merely a ceremonial purpose to the Brewers.

Lori paced with her arms crossed moving in and out of the early evening sunbeams streaming through the kitchen window. Rich gave her credit for not smoking a cigarette. His friend had kicked the habit a year ago but that day’s stress made a relapse understandable, maybe even expected.

Still, he should know better than to doubt her willpower. If she decided to stop smoking, then she would stop smoking. Of course, if she decided to give you a piece of her mind, you got it full bore. The word ‘subtle’ had no listing in Lori Brewer’s personal lexicon. Often times that attitude rubbed folks the wrong way. Occasionally she did so purposely to illicit a reaction. Probably not the best trait for a counselor.

Or was it?

Lori swiveled her head in his direction, rustling her shoulder-length brown hair.

“Oh great, well you got here in time to say good bye.”

“I came as fast as I could.”

Lori coated her words in frost as she said, “I’m sure the little princess was happy to see you come running over here.”

“Whoa. Slow down. What’s going on? You said Jon is getting called up? I thought he just got back from drills.”

Jon Brewer—crew cut in place—marched across the adjacent living room. He heard their conversation easily.

“This isn’t a drill,” Jon told them both without looking as he searched behind the sofa. “In an emergency like this they can call us up real fast.”

Stone recognized the stiff lip and wide eyes on Lori’s face, a combination of anger and disgust. He had seen the expression many times stretching all the way back to elementary school. She reserved the expression almost exclusively for her husband or parents although Rich had been on the receiving end on occasion, usually in regards to Ashley.

Lori’s next words explained her frustration.

“But you haven’t been called up yet, have you?”

Jon, hopping as he jammed a heavy work shoe on his left foot, peeked through the archway into the kitchen.

“I told you, my cousin heard the Governor has already made the decision to issue a full call-up. I might as well bug out instead of waiting around for the phone call, right?”

That, Rich knew, typified Jon Brewer: No waiting for things to happen; he lived by the doctrine of preemption.

Jon’s cousin had been the subject of many late night beer-spiced conversations. That cousin worked as a civilian contractor in the Pentagon. Jon knew his direct line.

Richard asked, “Where are you going? Indiantown Gap?”

“Yes,” Jon answered as he went searching for the second shoe.

“When do you leave?” Rich drifted to the archway between the kitchen and the living room where he watched Jon toss couch cushions.

Lori answered for him, “He doesn’t have to leave at all!”

“I’m going right away. I want to get down there to help organize the call-ups.”

Jon found his other shoe and hopped again.

“That’s my hero,” Lori spiked her words with sarcastic venom.

“Wait a second.” Rich sensed a hidden motivation in Jon’s urgency. His question eased out slow with suspicion dripping from every syllable, “What did your cousin tell you?”

“Just keep watching the news,” Jon said as he finished the second shoe.

Anger broiled inside Richard at the tease.

“What? What is going to be on the news?”

Jon—who at nearly six-nine stood almost a foot taller than Richard—came to the kitchen and hovered over his wife’s friend.

“West Point—poof! The Citadel—poof!”

“What?”

Lori cut in, “Everyone at West Point and the Citadel vanished two hours ago.”

Jon clarified in forced flippancy, “Abracadabra! Just like I-80; just like Wrigley field. Poof.”

Mr. Brewer watched with mild amusement as Richard digested that revelation.

Lori said, “So my soldier-boy-husband figures he needs to get a jump on the call up orders that his cousin tells him are coming. What if those orders don’t come?”

Jon ignored her.

Richard, in a daze, asked, “What does your cousin say about all this?”

The national guardsman savored his role as expert.

“It’s a military strike.”

“What makes you say that?”

Jon rolled his eyes at the newbie.

“West Point and The Citadel? Military schools. The teachers are some of the smartest fighting guys on the globe. Not to mention the students and cadets. We’re only lucky that it’s summer recess and there were a lot less people on campus.”

“No, no,” Richard did not buy it. “Just a coincidence. Norwegians, baseball fans, and traffic on a highway have no military value.”

Jon threw an arm around Richard and walked the two of them toward his wife.

“This is how they got it figured. It’s like artillery. First, you fire a round and see how close you come to the target. Then you walk-in your fire, probably from spotters. Something like that.”

Richard deduced, “They figure all those people are dead?”

“Wow, yeah, vaporized. Some sort of weapon that fried their bodies. They took out a bunch of civvies along the way until they finally found their range. Now they’ll start zeroing in on important things, like bases and stuff.”

Lori Brewer’s words carried more venom as she said, “And my idiot husband is driving down to the Gap to be a part of a big military group. Nice target.”

Jon frowned.

“Someone has to be ready to fight. Sooner or later, they’re going to stick their heads up. That’s when we’ll pay them back.”

Richard asked the obvious question: “Who?”

Jon normally offered an answer for everything. He could take wild ass guesses and make them sound reasoned and logical.

This time, Jon Brewer had no answer at all.

Chaos

“Wait a sec,” Rich whispered in Ashley’s ear.

She groaned and opened her eyes.

“What?”

“I think I heard something. I think your dad got out of bed.”

Ashley grew frustrated. She was almost where she needed to be and he went and stopped. His weight already felt heavy and it was too hot to have his sticky, naked body lying on her any longer than necessary, especially with the extra ten pounds he carried.

“Who cares? He’s probably going to the bathroom. They never come down stairs.”

Still, Dick did not start again. He cocked an ear toward the ceiling.

The flickering glow from the television danced across the couch and their intertwined bodies. That TV relayed the same news over and over: disappearances at West Point, the Citadel, and Naval Academy. Overseas, the Russians admitted that the better part of an infantry division had gone missing and they had lost contact with hundreds of small communities along the Ural Mountains.

“Yeah, well if he does come down stairs you’re not the one he’s going to kill,” Rich said.

“Are you kidding?” she giggled. “The sight of you screwing his little girl would give him a heart attack.”

“Is that part of the fun? Is that why—”

“Listen, I had something good coming along and I’m about to lose it if you don’t get the show on the road again. That is…unless you really want to stop…?”

She stroked a finger along his chin, batted her eyes bashfully, and stuck out her lower lip. The well-orchestrated expression served as much a seduction as a pout.

He lost concern for the upstairs footfalls. He could not resist. For a girl as beautiful as Ashley to want him…how could he resist?

And-oh-how the last few weeks had been a paradise for Rich’s libido: sex nearly every night, perhaps her way of releasing the tension surrounding the wedding. Whatever the reason, he approved.

Dick started again.

Soon she bit her lip to muffle her noise but Rich suspected Ashley really wanted to wail the loudest, window-rattling moan she could conjure…if only to be heard upstairs.

When he finished, she wiggled away and ran to the bathroom. A few minutes later, they shared hugs and whispers. She cuddled against his chest and accepted his assurances that the world and the wedding would be all right. Rich found satisfaction in comforting her, even if he did not believe his own words.

Sometimes she could be that little princess Lori Brewer thought Ashley to be, but that night Ashley was a scared human being watching her world unravel.

Dante had suggested that television and ball games and their daily routines had been fantasy and that a new reality waited on the doorstep. Richard wondered if Ashley could live in a world without shopping trips, American Idol, or VH-1. Then again, he doubted he could, either.

He was a mediocre car salesman.

He had never been a good student.

He could not fix a leaky toilet on his own nor do his taxes without an accountant.

Convincing such a tender creature as Ashley to marry him ranked as Richard’s most noteworthy accomplishment in twenty-three years of life.

Nevertheless, the delusion remained; the feeling that his life waited on hold, like a flower preparing to bloom.

The time came for him to leave.

“Rich,” she said as they stood on the porch. “I know everything is going to be all right.” A tremble in her voice suggested otherwise. “But just in case…you know…you know I love you, right? I mean, I can be a real—”

He silenced her with a kiss on the forehead.

“I know. And I love you, too…Mrs. Stone.”

Rich hopped down the stairs, walked across the driveway, and entered his car. He started the engine, waved, and drove off.

Ashley watched from her porch until the Malibu’s taillights faded from sight.

*

Another late night drive; another bout of weirdness on the radio.

This time he listened not to an AM talk show host handling conspiracy theorists, religious zealots, and other assorted shut-ins but, instead, twenty-four hour continuous live network coverage.

Scientific ‘experts’ replaced the conspiracy theorists. Respected clergy replaced the religious zealots. Military and political analysts now played the role of the assorted shut-ins.

Richard Trevor Stone grew convinced that the new voices on the radio did not know any more than the old voices.

The familiar CBS radio tune chimed, signaling the top of the hour.

“Updating our top stories…,” the anchorman reported.

Rich listened but kept his eyes focused ahead. The deep darkness surrounding the road created the illusion of driving through a tunnel.

“…Reports of mass disappearances are continually flowing in to our newsroom. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology and the University of Miami’s Marine Biology building have all been confirmed as sites of large-scale disappearances. As with all of the previous accounts, no witnesses and only piles of clothing left behind.

“There have been reports of additional disappearances in Brooklyn, Iowa City, and Seattle’s famous Space Needle. We are working on confirmation of these stories but our resources are stretched thin.”

Richard found the not-so-well-hidden quiver in the newscaster’s voice hypnotizing. He pitied the man as he struggled to report the news—the insanity—with some measure of professional stoicism.

“In addition, the Department of Homeland Security has admitted that various law enforcement agencies are investigating nearly 1,000 accounts of sightings or attacks by unidentifiable animals. This presumably includes the incident in New Mexico where a State Trooper’s dashboard video camera captured footage of the trooper and a car he had pulled over being attacked. Well, um, in actuality, the video shows both the trooper and the entire car full of passengers swallowed whole by a large worm creature.”

The newscaster paused for no more than three seconds but on radio three seconds of dead air seemed an eternity.

“I apologize…ladies and gentlemen…but these are not the types of stories we in the news business are accustomed to reporting. Sitting in this studio…it all seems unreal. It is now nearly impossible for our staff to distinguish between prank or hoax stories and the truth because both sound equally absurd.”

A thud jarred across the airwaves followed by concerned voices off-microphone and the newscaster protesting “I’m okay…I’m okay.”

After some distant cross talk, a female voice gained control of the broadcast.

Dick drove along carefully; he knew he neared his driveway. It would be good to get off the road and out of that tunnel of darkness.

“Now to our next guest, Dr. Richard Ashford, former assistant Science Advisor to two different Presidents. Dr. Ashford, what can you tell us about these events?”

Dr. Ashford—an older voice that sounded a tad tipsy to Richard’s ear—spoke brash and loud.

“It would be comforting if I could tell you that this is all caused by sun spots or the aurora borealis. It would be reassuring if I could blame this on some new terrorist weapon. Then we could fight it; maybe understand it. Even if that Reverend—the one on last hour who wanted everyone to join hands and pray—if he could tell us with certainty that this was God’s judgment then at least we would know. But I don’t know. You don’t know. None of us know.”

“That’s not very helpful, doctor.”

Richard swung the Malibu off the main road. A shape flashed in the corner of his eye as something bolted from the forest into the driveway. Before he could react—before he even understood that he should react—the car shuddered as the shape slammed the right side of the car. The collision threw Rich’s foot off the accelerator. The passenger’s side window cracked into a spider web.

“That’s because this situation has no historical precedent…”

The car stopped. Rich’s head bounced as if he were a bobble-head doll but the seat belt held his body in place. His mind groggily comprehended that something had hit him…but what?

When he saw what hovered outside the cracked passenger’s window, he shivered violently.

Two big round beastly eyes as colorless as granite.

A dearth of oxygen foiled Rich’s attempt to scream.

“…we are facing something that is disrupting what we know about our existence…”

The lack of light frustrated his mind’s feeble attempt to discern the body of the thing. Rat-like, maybe, but nearly the size of the Malibu. Fur? A short snout? Whiskers? All guesses fueled more by imagination than vision. Nevertheless, one inescapable conclusion broke through the confusion: the animal on the far side of the cracked window did not belong to Rich’s reality. It was something different.

The thing nearly as big as his vehicle and not of his world staggered as though it were a quarterback after a blind-side sack. Rich absently reached another conclusion: the collision had not been intentional. The rat-like creature had been running from something.

That other something was coming.

“…reality itself is being called into question…”

The rat-thing squealed…maybe hissed. Rich swallowed air in big thirsty gulps.

A second dark silhouette descended upon the scene.

The first—the rat-like thing—tried to adjust its flight around the car.

Too late.

The darkness kept the second entity as well hidden as the first. Rich could see only a little of its shape. Mercifully little. He saw—he thought he saw—a shambling mass of tendrils…or worms…or something like that: a hundred sickening, squirming appendages.

Those appendages grabbed the rat-thing. It squealed again.

Despite the darkness, despite his hysteria, Rich saw those tendrils puncture the victim’s hide and drag away the rat-thing’s writhing body which disappeared into the larger monstrosity.

“…our science arrogantly claims to know so much but we are being taught a terrifying lesson…”

The squeals faded into a garbled, mumbled groan as if drowning in the predator’s feelers.

“…and now we are faced with an issue of survival not only as nations and governments, but as a species…”

Somehow, his foot found the gas pedal and pushed. The sedan kicked dirt and gravel and sticks as it tore off along the drive. Rich did not take his foot off the accelerator until he arrived at the front stairs.

“…whatever this new world will be, apparently all of mankind’s power and strength is insignificant…”

He leapt from the car.

No mindful consideration; only the instinct for flight. Richard’s sanity went on temporary leave and his inborn survival mechanism carried him onto the porch and into his home.

The dogs came running again, this time doing something his Elkhounds rarely did; they barked fiercely. Not at him, but at what they knew lurked outside.

Richard Stone bolted up the front stairwell and to the second floor. His dad walked from the master bedroom tying a robe over boxer shorts as he moved.

“Rich?”

The son ignored his father and opened the door to the second floor storage room, a holding pen for various boxes, old furniture, and assorted odds and ends. Richard’s mind—his crazed, confused, and terrified mind—managed to send one reminder: his father’s old shotgun and hunting rifle waited in a cabinet in that storage room.

“Honey? What is it?” His mother called from the bedroom.

Dick had already opened the old metal cabinet when his father’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder. George Stone saw his son’s objective.

“Richard!” He shouted but Dick grabbed the shotgun that his dad had used long ago to hunt wild turkey.

Before he could do anything with the weapon, George’s other hand snagged the barrel and pulled it easily from his son’s clutches.

Mom turned on the ceiling light and gasped.

Richard backed away from his father and fell on his ass to the floor of the room. He curled into a ball and threw his hands over his eyes.

“Jesus Christ, son, what the hell are you doing?”

Tears ran along his cheeks. He provided no explanation; only heaves.

George, carrying the gun by the barrel, left his son’s side for the top of the stairs. He stood still and listened. The dogs stopped barking.

Tyr trotted upstairs and went straight into the storage room where he licked Rich’s hands.

“Yes…” Rich sucked in air as well as dust from the neglected room as he spoke to the dog. “Yes, yes, I’m okay…I think.”

“George, I’m frightened,” Kelly told her husband when he re-entered the room.

Rich uncovered his eyes in reaction to the dog’s attention. He said, “You should go back down with Odin and keep a watch out.”

Tyr trotted away.

George returned the shotgun to the cabinet and then knelt in front of his boy who still sat on the floor between a milk crate of books and an old office chair wrapped in a garbage bag.

“What…happened?”

Kelly said, “We heard a noise. A crash. Did you have an accident?”

“Something ran into my car.”

George prompted. “A deer?”

“No…no deer. Something, Dad, oh God,” Rich trembled so violently it sapped his voice.

“Easy…easy…” George rested a reassuring hand on his kid’s shoulder.

It was physically impossible for Richard to speak, so his father did.

“Whatever it was, it sure put a scare in you. Hell, son, you’ve never held a gun before, let alone fired one. You’d probably shoot your foot off.”

Dad drew a dumb-ass sarcastic smirk on his face. Rich allowed his gasps for breath to turn into a chuckle, then a laugh. He leaned forward, threw an arm around his father, and squeezed. Mom joined them and they all sat together on the floor in one big group hug.

*

Mr. Munroe blew nasty-smelling cigar smoke into the air as he surveyed the damage to the Malibu.

Rich’s hope that he might catch a break over the smashed car faded. He should have known that even the news reports could not save him from his manager’s wrath. Those news reports had tallied an estimate of the disappearances in the United States: somewhere between eighty-five and one hundred thousand people, all gone without a trace.

Other reports—ranging from strange flying creatures downing a traffic chopper in Charlotte to the fact that no one had heard from Taiwan in twelve hours—added to the sense of approaching doom.

Richard’s parents had urged him to skip work not only because of world events but also because he had barely slept last night.

However, he had a strong sense of responsibility for the damaged demo car, mixed with a healthy dose of denial. Besides, after two encounters in two days on his family’s property he did not feel safer at home.

In any case, Stone followed Mr. Munroe as the latter paced along the passenger side of the sedan parked in the service lot behind the main Chevy showroom. A handful of lonely, puffy white clouds drifted overhead. The calm beauty of the late-June morning sky contrasted sharply with the storm of fear brewing below.

Mr. Munroe removed his cigar, exhaled, and restated what Dick had already told him.

“So something ran into you, eh? A deer?”

“Yes, something like that. It was dark. You can see there’s fur stuck in the door.”

Mr. Munroe stooped to inspect the badly bent side panel.

“Yep. Some kind of fur… strange, though…more like needles…”

“I really feel bad but you can see it wasn’t my fault.”

Rich’s boss stood straight and jammed his cigar into the corner of his mouth. He spoke in the tone of a Drill Sergeant.

“Not your fault? For Christ’s sake, son, you need to face the music. This was your demo car.”

Richard closed his eyes and pinched his nose with his fingertips. He felt a head ache blooming.

“I realize that, Mr. Munroe.”

“Just ‘cause some dumb animal ran into your broad side don’t mean you’re not responsible.”

“Holy Shit!”

The shout came from Bobby Weston inside the showroom. More specifically, the cry originated from the customer waiting area where Bobby watched television.

With his cigar firmly wedged in his gums, Mr. Munroe marched inside toward the customer lounge. Stone followed in less determined strides.

Bobby Weston backed out of the lounge. His perfectly groomed hair, perfectly manicured nails, and perfectly ironed dress shirt could not hide the expression of perfect horror draped over his face as he staggered out of the lounge with his eyes still locked on the television therein.

“I am so fucking outta here…” Bobby Weston passed his Chevrolet brethren en route to his demo Impala parked out front in the “Salesman of the Month” slot.

While Mr. Munroe debated chasing after his protégé, Richard entered the lounge to find out why the television had spooked Bobby.

“…smoke is rising from downtown and there are reports of explosions at the air port…”

The video feed came from a camera mounted on the roof of the local NBC affiliate in downtown Wilkes-Barre. It showed smoke amidst the buildings—some tall and some short—at the center of town.

An anchorman—a frantic newscaster who realized the camera showed the scene outside of his building—tried to keep his voice cool while relaying what they knew, or suspected, or guessed.

“We have been unable to get any comments from local law enforcement but our news department is monitoring emergency services radio. We can tell you there is a state of confusion and panic—wait a second…there…”

Something flew in front of the rooftop camera. Something big with wings like a bat, but definitely not a bat.

“There is another of the—of the things that have been flying…okay, no, now we’re getting a report that there is a mob of—what is that? Could you repeat that?”

A ball of fire and smoke rose from somewhere downtown, shaking the rooftop camera. A moment later Richard heard the explosion, not from the television, but through the open showroom door. He stood less than two miles from center city.

“We’re switching to a camera man in the lobby of this building…wait one moment…”

The picture switched from the roof top video feed to the studio. The anchorman, unaware of the change, sat with his head buried in his arms atop the news desk like a tired child. One finger pushed hard against his earpiece as if better hearing might clear away the madness.

“…okay…here we go…”

Again, the picture changed. This time the television framed shaky video from a hand held camera in the lobby of the station. That lobby featured large floor-to-ceiling glass windows affording a view of what Rich knew to be Franklin Street, a primary downtown thoroughfare lined with parked cars and shade trees. An upscale gentleman’s business club situated in a grand old stone building dominated the stretch of city block across from the station.

On that block, a handful of pedestrians stood and gawked; several others ran off camera, discarding briefcases and screaming as they fled the mob that stormed up Franklin Street.

Not a mob of people.

Ghastly white beasts bound along on four limbs not unlike the gait of a primate. Yet these were no Earthly creatures: generally humanoid with protruding ribs and skullish faces, they lumbered forward en masse. Some sort of ravenous ghouls…

Dozens of them.

That fast-moving horde attacked the remaining pedestrians with claws and bites. Then the mob noticed the television station and charged those big windows. The windows smashed. The hand held camera plummeted to the floor. The newscaster’s quivering voice broadcast while the video presented a blurry, tight shot of the lobby carpet.

“Okay…oh dear…we…security?…We are probably going to have to go off the air…I can hear them in the hallway…security!…I have to go…OH CHRIST…”

No more voices. Screams. Crunches.

“Mister…Mister Munroe…”

Sirens blared outside the auto mall.

“I have to go.”

Richard walked out of the lounge and into the main Chevrolet showroom. His pace served notice he had no intention of stopping. Mr. Munroe half-heartily pursued.

A summer breeze carrying traces of distant, burning smoke blew in through the dealership’s propped-open front door. Bobby Weston, visible through the showroom glass, fumbled with keys next to his Impala.

“Now wait one second mister,” the manager tried to regain control over his employee.

They both saw what happened to Bobby.

A massive…a massive thing…maybe a ‘leg’ or ‘foot’ but neither seemed the best description…big and round like a California Redwood tree, it could have belonged to an elephant. A really, really big elephant.

The mass stomped down on Bobby and his car, obliterating the man into a red splatter and crushing the vehicle. The impact tremor splintered the plate glass windows. Car alarms blared to life.

Three additional mammoth limbs plodded across the parking lot, all part of some gargantuan creature trespassing on Edgar Chevrolet property.

Synapses in the brains of Mr. Munroe and Richard Trevor Stone fired at a rapid pace.

For Richard, the flight instinct seized command. His legs carried him toward the service parking area and his damaged demo car behind the building. He did not think, his legs remembered the way all on their own.

As Dick ran, he heard Mr. Munroe’s rather interesting reaction. The poor man’s synapses cross-wired and failed him when it counted.

The Sales Manager yelled in an authoritative voice, “Bobby Weston what the hell are you doing?”

Mr. Munroe’s last words joined other noises in Rich’s ears: the sounds of smashing wood and crumbling dry wall and shattering glass, the mix of chirps and horns from a chorus of car alarms.

Stone reached the Malibu, started the ignition on the first try, and drove to the main exit. He did not look back. He did not want to see the rest of the thing that had turned Bobby Weston into a stain. He did not want to watch the thing rip apart the Chevrolet showroom.

No, the beast’s deep, inhuman roars tested his sanity enough as it bellowed above all the other sounds of destruction.

*

Richard completed his escape but his pace slowed to a crawl as a sea of traffic clogged the roads.

Part of the gridlock came from drivers paralyzed by the chaos. They stopped and blocked intersections and side streets, sitting behind their steering wheels with eyes wide open in terrified wonder.

Accidents bore the blame for even more of the stoppage. Fleeing cars crashed together splintering radiators, bending tire rods, and crumpling hoods. Some accident survivors fled on foot; others stayed slumped in their seat unconscious or dazed into inaction.

Other cars stopped because they were under attack.

Richard witnessed one woman sucked from an old Chrysler convertible by a bulbous jellyfish creature. He could see her shocked face inside the thing’s belly as corrosive digestive acids went to work.

Further along he saw a Camaro t-boned by a hippopotamus beast with eyes on stalks. The collision sent the car over an embankment and the creature—clearly a predator—disappeared into the gully in pursuit.

He weaved between smashed vans and overturned pick up trucks. He dodged packs of panicked people and gassed the car to avoid a second slithering jellyfish monster.

A cloud of thick, oily black smoke hovered over the street from a burning tour bus. A swarm of cat-sized, acid spitting cockroaches had ignited the bus’ fuel tank. A dozen roasting passengers banged futilely on the windows.

After clearing the smoke, Dick happened upon a battle at a major intersection. Five leather-clad humanoids brandishing high tech crossbows squared off against the Wilkes-Barre police.

One of the leather-clad invaders lay dead in the intersection among a pile of human bodies. Two police officers found refuge behind their squad car where they reloaded side arms.

Fortunately, he avoided the crossfire by changing course and heading for an expressway on-ramp.

Wilkes-Barre and the rest of the Wyoming Valley is essentially a big bowl between two moderate mountain ranges. A river runs through the middle of that bowl. The raised “Cross Valley Expressway” travels roughly east/west from one end of that bowl to the other, bridging the Susquehanna River on its way toward the rural countryside of the “Back Mountain.”

Richard drove that expressway. From the highway, he could see the eclectic mix of old and new buildings downtown, the rotunda of the massive Luzerne County Courthouse along the river, and the quiet neighborhoods of surrounding suburbs.

Fires…distant dots flying in the sky…emergency vehicles… loud booms… those were the things he saw and heard as he cut across the valley.

Temporarily clear of the carnage, his mind finally offered sentient advice. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he used the other to hit the speed dial on his cell phone and heard an automated “all circuits are busy,” three times before a ring.

Ashley answered. She spoke in an eerily calm voice.

“Hello, Richard, are you coming over?”

“Wh-what? Oh God, Ashley, things are…things are going crazy,” he sobbed as he swerved to avoid a Mustang that had slowed to get a better view of the large spider-thing crawling on the courthouse dome.

“I know,” she said, distantly. “I’m wearing my wedding dress. I look beautiful… you should see it.”

His heart raced. The steering wheel nearly slipped from his grasp as his palms grew greasy with sweat.

“Ashley, are you safe there?”

“Safe? Oh yes, my daddy is downstairs. We can hear…we can hear stuff but it’s all far away. This dress is so beautiful.”

“I’m coming, honey. I’m coming.”

“Richard, there’s something you need to—” Her voice switched off.

“Ashley? Ashley!”

He slammed the brakes to stop for the red light at the end of the exit ramp. No traffic moved in any direction, yet he waited five full seconds until realizing how ridiculous that was.

Richard Stone ran the red light.

*

The Trumps lived in Kingston, one of half-a-dozen small boroughs lining the western banks of the Susquehanna. Rich drove slow and cautious into the quiet neighborhood. He saw not one soul. Nothing.

After parking in the half-circle driveway, he raced to the porch. The only noises that reached his ear were noises drifting in on the wind from afar.

The front door stood ajar creaking softly in a gentle breeze. He went inside.

“Ashley? Mr. Trump?”

Rich stumbled over coveralls piled on the floor. A breast patch read “Trump Fences”.

Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God…

Dick ran the first floor hall ignoring the television news broadcasting to an empty living room. He frantically climbed the stairs and burst into her room.

A wedding dress lay on the floor in a haphazard bundle. Singe marks stained the delicate white fabric near the straps.

Ashley had been right.

The dress was beautiful.

The Old Man

Richard sat for an hour in Ashley’s vacant bedroom.

Hideous beasts crawling the streets…authorities powerless to stop the onslaught…human beings killed before his eyes…his fiancée vaporized by what Jon had characterized as ‘alien artillery.’ It all warped and spun together in a vortex of confusion within his mind.

He had never faced death before. Now he had witnessed more people dying and more dead bodies than he could count, all in the span of an hour or so.

Just days ago it had all been a joke in the tabloids, then an oddity on the nightly news. Now it was reality. His reality.

It left Richard dazed and confused, sad and scared.

The cry of distant sirens slipped in through the closed windows. He felt the occasional tremble and saw periodic flashes outside the window that warned of something else exploding, burning or otherwise adding to the anarchy.

A single sound—the pop of a faraway gunshot echoing at the right moment between all the other sounds—finally focused his attention.

Rich Stone stumbled to the first floor and into the living room. The television broadcast a cable news network. A waver on the edge of the anchorwoman’s lips suggested she could burst out laughing or break down crying at any moment.

“Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Houston, and Washington D.C., are all in a state of chaos. Here—New York City—is in the same condition. We can hear gunfire outside our studio and people who work in this building have reported seeing…seeing a wide variety of…of… animals…or beasts…or even monsters. I suppose we should call them what they appear to be.”

Rich sunk into the couch, the couch where he had made love to Ashley several times that week.

“We had a report an hour ago of fighter jets shooting down an unidentified flying object over Phoenix. Furthermore, we have accessed satellite uplinks from several affiliate stations across the country, mainly video feeds showing the same thing nationwide: street battles between police officers and armed citizens with whatever these invading creatures are. It should be noted that the variety of these…these…things is…well there seems to be a lot of different kinds of things involved in this…this…whatever this is.”

Richard felt sorry for the woman. She chronicled the disintegration of society to viewers around the world in words that sounded ridiculous and unworthy of national news.

“Our station chiefs in London, Paris, Moscow and Beijing report the same type of mass pandemonium. Yet still no idea as to what is actually happening, why, or what types of precautions should be taken. Umm…precautions? Who’s writing this shit?”

He turned the television off as the flustered anchorwoman ran a hand through her hair.

*

The community surrounding the Trump’s modular home remained undisturbed but the panicked car horns, the cries for help, and the plumes of smoke in the beautiful late morning sky drew closer.

Rich drove to the Cross Valley Expressway unmolested and headed west, putting more distance between himself and Wilkes-Barre.

The highway snaked through a rock cut in the western valley wall emerging in the rural area nicknamed the “Back Mountain.” At that point, the expressway morphed into a two-lane rural route passing islands of development among a sea of rolling green mountains.

He left the main path at the first opportunity for the hidden country roads he knew so well. The car radio offered more—not better—information.

“This is a new development. Can we get confirmation of this? Is this another prank?”

A female voice joined the male newscaster.

“It’s confirmed. That came over from Atlanta City Hall five minutes ago.”

The man said, “Okay, well, then, um, it seems a group has provided a communiqué to the Mayor of Atlanta demanding…”

“Maybe you should just read it.”

“Yes, yes of course,” the man cleared his throat. “It says, ’the leader of the humans of Atlanta is now demanded to surrender to the Grand Army of the Hivvan Republic. All humans will report to processing centers.”

The newsman paused and admitted, “I’m not sure if I’m pronouncing ‘Hivvan’ correctly.”

Rich steered the Chevy around a sweeping turn. Overhead the sun glinted through the plush treetops casting alternating bands of light and dark across the car.

The woman said, “This is the third report we’ve heard of organizations or groups being a part of…of…all this. The first came an hour ago when an AP wire story from Hartford referred to a column of unidentified soldiers wearing strange uniforms and riding in transports that hovered above the ground. We were not able to confirm that report. Of course, confirming reports has been difficult since many of our correspondents are dead, missing, or in hiding.”

The man added, “There have been scattered accounts of well-planned assaults on police barracks and government buildings by organized forces armed with a variety of weapons. One eye witness account from the San Francisco area tells of silver-skinned aliens using over sized insects as if they were attack dogs.”

Something big flew overhead but thankfully, paid the Malibu no mind.

To his surprise, Rich nearly missed the turn for his home. He braked hard, squealing the tires as he threw the vehicle into the driveway and then sped along the gravel surface toward his house where he stopped behind his father’s parked SUV. Dick hopped out, started toward the porch…and froze.

Goosebumps erupted all over: the front door lay torn from its hinges. A tremble—a deep, low tremble—vibrated in his bones.

With forced courage, he approached the smashed-open doorway as if it were the jaws of a sleeping monster.

A noise stopped him at the doorframe: a sound of clumsy movement.

Rich dared a step inside where he inhaled a moist smell that hinted of sour fruit.

No lights were on and the sun did not shine in. Even before his pupils expanded to compensate for the dark, Richard sensed something awry.

The walls…blotches on the walls? Did mom repaint the walls?

Movement stole his attention: a shadow in the kitchen at the end of the hall.

Richard experienced an epiphany. He realized he had never been this afraid. Ever. Simple, basic fear for his life. Deep, primal, and complete. It unlocked an entirely new level of consciousness.

To feel the flight instinct screaming run! Run! Run!

To feel the fight instinct muster adrenaline for battle.

Nonetheless, Richard stepped two tentative paces across the front room.

The shadow knocked over clutter in the kitchen. Pots and pans, perhaps?

Dick’s foot squished into something.

On the floor he saw a mess—a big chunky mess—strewn over the carpet his mother installed two years before. She loved how the rich rusty color blended perfectly with the decor.

As his eyes adjusted to the low lighting, the mess took form.

Rugs? Shaggy rolled rugs? What are rugs doing…no…oh no…

Enough recognizable slabs remained to solve the mystery: that mess had been his mother and father.

The walls…they had been repainted. Repainted red.

Air exploded from his lungs, catching the attention of the shadow in the kitchen. A strange silhouette wobbled to the hallway swaying side to side as it lumbered toward the front of the house. A pear shaped body with short legs and even shorter barbed arms, it stood bigger and wider than a man, barely fitting between the walls of the hall.

Richard retreated a step…two steps…

An oversized head dominated the brute and featured one big eye surrounded by small red dots that might also be eyes. Teeth gnashed inside a massive, disjointed jaw. Its heavy legs shuffled on the floor and its wide sides brushed against the walls.

Richard withdrew to the front porch. He stumbled down the stairs and bumped against the side of his car where he stopped and waited. Certainly, the creature would not follow; such nightmares could not survive in the light of day.

Wrong.

The nightmares had been freed from the dark passages. A new world had dawned and that world belonged to the nightmares. Man would now hide in the shadows.

Out to the porch it came. The sun splashed the ugly red and brown body of tough flesh in golden rays. It did not howl in pain. It did not retreat. Birds still chirped; a breeze still blew.

The creature stumbled forward on those two short muscular legs leaning oddly as if maybe Earth’s gravity differed from its home environment. It descended toward Richard who stood against his car transfixed.

A creak from the steps snapped Rich from his trance. He moved off in a staggering walk then a fast jog. He ran to the side yard of overgrown, weed-infected grass wedged between the cedar home, the garage, and the thick woods. Two strange objects blocked his flight. He skidded to a stop in the knee-high growth and tried to understand what he saw lying there.

After a moment, he recognized the mounds: two more of the big-headed monsters motionless on the ground, one ripped nastily along its gut and legs where a weird red molasses drained. The second face down, its head torn open.

Stone anxiously wondered what could mutilate two of these monstrosities? He would have an answer shortly.

The living monster wobbled into the side yard in pursuit.

Richard jogged to the rear of the home.

A recently added sunroom extended into the back yard: mom had planned to install a hot tub there next month.

Dad kept the back lawn green and trim. He considered it his job—more a passion—despite how often Rich volunteered to handle the chore.

A wooden play set with swings and a metal sliding board sat atop a bed of wood chips along the edge of the grass. When he had been eleven years old, Rich fell from that sliding board. Or had Dante pushed him?

Exhaustion forced him to stop in search of breath.

Thus far, his plan entailed running around the house, nothing more. He dared not go inside and face the bodies of his parents and he could not think of anywhere else for escape.

The pursuer—the monster with the big round red eye and the gaping jaw—arrived in the rear yard.

Yes, he could run around the house some more, but he decided to give it a good look. He decided to see if this were some man in a mask, some massive prank pulled by Dante Jones and Lori Brewer.

They would all jump out now—Ashley, mom and dad, that lady who had been eaten by the jellyfish thing—they would all jump out and surprise him. The whole world would be fine again.

A surprise did come, yet not what Richard hoped.

Two more animals joined the fray.

Tyr and Odin—the Stones’ stocky black and gray Norwegian Elkhounds—bolted around Richard and closed on the monster. As he watched, Rich realized what had dispatched the other two creatures.

His household pets showed the clever instincts and fast reflexes that had empowered their ancestors to hunt moose and bear alongside the ancient Vikings. Now Rich’s dogs acted clever and fast with a different type of beast.

Tyr demonstrated directly in front of the creature, easily dodging the clumsy flails of the barbed arms and the snaps of the massive maw. Odin circled behind and lunged. The dog’s jaws ripped into the bottom of the leg of the thing. A liquid squirted and the monster howled.

The brute slowly turned to face Odin, only to have its lower body savaged by Tyr, all while Odin took his turn dodging snaps and lunges with barks and yaps.

Richard watched in awe.

In short order, the demon’s shredded legs no longer supported the weight of its oversized skull. It toppled like a dictator’s statue before an angry mob of peasants. Once on its back, the creature was doomed.

Canine jaws worked again and again, pulling and tearing.

Richard cringed as gore spewed from the fallen foe. Its grunts and groans faded. Its jaw stopped gnashing; its legs stopped kicking. Steamy vapors rose from vents torn in its flesh.

Once their work ended, the two dogs trotted to Richard with their heads slightly bowed.

He spoke to himself aloud, “What happened here?”

An answer surged into his mind with uncanny clarity.

Three creatures had come to the house. One smashed the front door and grabbed the mother. The father had grappled with the monster bravely, but to no avail.

Outside at the time, the hounds raced to the rescue but the other two beasts intercepted them. A battle ensued. Tyr and Odin outmaneuvered the things. Alas, by the time they had scored their kills the mother and father were dead.

Not wanting to fight inside the tight confines of the house, the dogs had waited in the woods until hearing their Master return home.

This understanding of what had happened came clear—eerily clear—to Richard’s mind.

He walked around front, sat on the porch steps with his head in his hands, and wondered if Dante still lived out there, somewhere. What about Jon? Was he on the battlefield scoring victories for humanity? What of Lori?

We must leave.

“What? Huh?”

Certain he heard a voice, Richard pulled his head from his hands.

Tyr hovered nearby, standing taut with his ears perked. Odin wandered around the drive further away.

Something coming.

Someone did speak, but had he heard the voice with his ears or his mind?

The ground trembled softly.

Odin trotted fast to the front porch alternating his eyes between Tyr and Richard.

Something coming from road. Big.

Both dogs moved toward the side yard. When Richard did not follow, they paused and gaped. The trees on the far side of the lot swayed. Richard decided to go.

They had barely reached the tree line when it slithered from cover onto the Stones’ property: a crawling mass of tendrils and squirming appendages spilling from a conical carapace that could have been a shell but not quite: more a hard fleshy bag the top of which reached taller than the garage. A putrid smell of acidic rot emanated from the sickly beast.

Tyr and Odin, no matter how resourceful, could not do battle with this new arrival. Fortunately, they and their Master escaped unnoticed.

The canopy of eastern mixed forest blocked much of the sun and trapped chilled damp air beneath. Low hanging limbs and tall brush scraped against Rich’s face and shoulders, cutting and bruising his arms and cheeks as he hurried through the woods. Tyr and Odin bound along effortless on his flanks.

Other things lived in the forest.

Out the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a hulk of black lumbering along as its train-sized mass pushed through the dense woodland. It either did not see or did not care about him.

Richard stopped to catch his breath against a Maple, only to be scared off by a slothy creature hanging high in the tree gorging on leaves.

He saw a pack of leather-skinned frogs the size of pigs hopping together and a trio of animals that could have been deer, save for glowing red eyes and long slender horns.

Howls of both earthly animals and unearthly trespassers reverberated through the woods, sources unseen. Birds and more fluttered and flew amongst the branches.

The deeper they went the fewer sounds and sights haunted. No doubt, the worst of the new predators favored the prey-filled streets of the cities more than the lonely forest.

Rich and his companions tore through that forest aiming for no particular destination. Soon his legs grew weak and his run turned to a stagger until he fell face-first into a pile of wet, mushy leaves.

He rolled onto his back and stared skyward. A flicker of afternoon sun pushed through the crowded trees.

Tears came…tears and pain.

The small cuts on his arms stung; the fatigue in his body throbbed like a headache stretched to his toes; and his thoughts scattered to pieces.

Both dogs waited patiently with their eyes and ears tuned to the wilderness.

He closed his eyes and saw the empty wedding dress and his dead parents; he heard the thump of the massive foot crushing Bobby Weston.

Overload.

Richard blacked out.

*

A cold shiver shocked his eyes open.

Sunlight still slipped through the treetops, but now at a steeper, later angle.

Rich sat. Every part of his body hurt, from the muscles of his legs to the knuckles in his fingers. The impromptu nap atop cold, damp leaves had aggravated his fatigue.

Birds chattered and the clap of a far-off explosion rode the wind in from civilization.

Look at this.

“What?”

A newcomer joined their gathering. That newcomer wore a coat of pure white with deep amber eyes.

A wolf.

As far as Rich knew, no wolves had lived in Pennsylvania for at least fifty years, maybe much longer.

Surprisingly, neither Tyr nor Odin acted concerned as the wolf stared at the three fugitives from a few paces away. However, Stone’s awakening triggered a reaction. The animal turned and trotted off at a brisk pace.

Follow.

Acting on some intangible impulse, Rich followed the white wolf through the overgrowth on a thin game trail.

After several minutes, the wolf hopped between two Oaks and descended an embankment leading them to a rocky, dry streambed bordered on one end by a large fallen tree. The wolf stopped on the far side.

A campfire glowed in the middle of the gully. An old man sat by that fire on a slab of red rock, dressed in a plain white shirt with a black vest and faded jeans. He wore gray stubble on pale, wrinkled cheeks with messy thin hair on top. His sunken dark eyes admired the fire while his mouth worked gently as if chewing a pinch of tobacco or maybe sunflower seeds.

Richard stopped at the embankment. A wave of heat from the flames drifted by, dispelling any notion of an exhaustion-fueled mirage.

Tyr and Odin casually descended the bank and rested on either side of the blaze. They relaxed their guard, as if sensing safety within the fire’s perimeter.

Rich nearly fell over a protruding root as he skidded the slope. He barely managed to keep his balance as he moved to the fire and stood, waiting, unsure of what to do next.

“It’s ‘bout time you got here,” the Old Man spoke in a gruff voice. “Started to think you might not make it. Started to think this was gunna be over ‘fore it got started. Now wouldn’t that be a damn shame?”

Dick crinkled his eyes.

“Don’t just stand there and gawk. Sit by the fire ‘fore you catch new-moan-ya.”

Richard spotted another chunk of red rock across from the old timer and sat. His achy bones and clammy skin appreciated the warmth.

“Who are you? Do you know me?”

“Okay, see, now this is the first thing we have to get straight,” the Old Man fixed his eyes on Richard. “You don’t get to ask questions, see? That’s not how this works.”

“What do you mean? How what works?”

“Oh now, c’mon, this ain’t startin’ off so good. You ain’t listening.”

Richard opened his mouth. The Old Man glared. Richard closed his mouth.

“Better. A start. Let’s get this out of the way right now; do you want to live?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you a question. You answer it. That’s another thing we got to get straight. The question is do you want to live? Now that would usually be a stupid question, wouldn’t it? But today you lost just about everything you had. You been seein’ people gettin’ crushed and killed and whatnot. There lotsa folk slittin’ their wrists or suckin’ the business end of a thirty-eight and callin’ it a day. What ‘bout you? You want to live?”

Richard considered the question. Ashley…his parents…all gone. His world of ESPN, talk radio, and DVD rentals had sailed away into the category of ‘the good old days, long forgotten, rest in peace.’

A new world had been born. An unpleasant new world.

Yet…something inside kept him from going quietly into the night. Yes, he wanted to live. Desperately. He just could not think of a good reason why.

“I want to live.”

“Good, figured but thought I should ask. That’s the polite thing to do, right? So, okay then, good. Let’s move on. Here’s the deal. It’s not a good one, but it’s the way things are. I won’t go apologizin’ for it ‘cause I didn’t make up all the rules. So that’s the first thing you need to know: there are rules.”

“Rules?” Dick interrupted. “Rules for what? What are you talking about? Don’t tell me not to ask questions. Screw you! Who the hell are you?”

The Old Man smiled.

“All right. That’s not bad. You got some fight in you. But you need to save that for your enemies. Oh man, you’ve got a lot of enemies, too. And they are—what do they say these days? —they are bringing it. Shit yeah. Me? I’m on your side. Sort of, I ‘spose. By the time this is all over you sure as hell won’t be callin’ me buddy but right now I’m about the closest thing to a friend you’re gunna have from here on out.

“You see, Trevor, I’m gunna help you to live. That’s what I’m gunna do. Help. But that’s it. It ain’t gunna be fun. It’s gunna be lonely and nothin’ but runnin’ and hidin’ then fightin’ and killin’.”

Rich noted the man had used his middle name but that was not the first question on his mind.

“Me? What do you want with me? I don’t know anything about what you’re saying…” Rich let his head fall into his hands. The tears swelled again.

The Old Man pushed onward.

“Here’s the deal, Trevor. You’ve got a role to play. You got a job to do. It’s all ‘bout savin’ mankind. The weight of the world is a comin’ down and it’s a comin’ down on your shoulders.”

He pulled his dirty and bloody face from his hands. Salty water pooled in his eyes and he gawked at the Old Man incredulously.

“What? Saving mankind? Me? Is this some kind of bad joke? Who the hell are you anyway? Some old fool out in the forest—”

“Now, no, see, that’s not good. I told you, there are rules. I’m not here to be answerin’ your questions. I’m here to help you walk a path. In some ways, you already have walked it. I’m not even here, not really, not the way you think, not right now ‘least,” the Old Man’s eyes drifted away, contemplating something complex. “Time is just a man made thing, any-who. Time is irrelevant.”

After a moment, his focus returned to Richard.

“Where was we? Oh yeah. Rules. I’ve got ones I got to play by and that’s just the way it is. I can help you, sort of. But you got to do the heavy lifting. It’s a raw deal for you, really it is, but this isn’t about you. It’s about savin’ the human race.”

Rich said, “The whole human race? What? I’m some sort of savior?”

The words sounded uncomfortable to Rich and hilarious to the Old Man.

“Savior? Savior? Oh, now that just takes the cake, now don’t it? He thinks he’s a savior. My-oh-my for a fella who’s already pissed his pants, stinks like a dog that just rolled in shit, and has spent all day runnin’ like a scared rabbit from everything that said ‘boo’ you sure got a high horse you’re ridin’. Savior… ha!”

Richard cast his eyes to the ground, embarrassed.

“You’re a link in a chain, Trevor. The chain ain’t no good if a piece gets broke. The chain is only as strong as its weakest link, right? Well you’re a link in a chain. A damn important chain, but just a link.”

“Whatever.” It all seemed a joke or a hallucination. “This is your game. Whatever.”

“No game! You listen to me ‘cause you and I don’t need to be wastin’ words. I’m gunna push you in the right direction but you got to do the work. And if you do it right maybe—maybe, mind you—your species ain’t gunna go the way of the Dodo bird. You do it wrong and everything is over. All of it. Hit the lights, party’s over. Are we communicating?”

Rich begged to know, “Are you…are you God?”

After all he had witnessed, run from, and barely escaped that day, it seemed a fair question.

The Old Man’s amusement at the idea nearly matched his amusement at the whole Dick-as-a-savior suggestion.

“God? What do you know ‘bout that? Probably know as much as I do ‘bout that, I ‘spect. Still and all, you need to stop worryin’ ‘bout stuff like that ‘cause it don’t matter none right now. I’ll tell you what matters. Three things matter.”

“Three things?”

“Three things you got to do from now on. It’s your role. It’s your link in the chain, Trevor. First, you got to survive.”

“Survive?”

“That’s right. Survive. I’m gunna help you with that. Keep your pants on. The second thing you got to do is when the time is right you got to fight. Balls-to-the-wall no-holds-barred. I’m talking Ali verse Fraiser, Auburn against ‘Bama. Fight. You hearin’ me?”

Rich nodded absently.

“And the third thing?”

“The third thing…” the Old Man considered his words.“The third thing is the hardest. Like I told ‘ya, this is a bum deal. But it’s the price you pay for being a link on this chain.”

Stone asked again, “The third thing?”

“Sacrifice. Things ain’t gunna be easy from now on, assumin’ you live long enough to do what you got to do. If you don’t make it then it’s all over. So, you got to survive then you got to fight and you got to sacrifice everything else for the cause. That’s the way it is, Trevor, and it sucks a lot more than you think it’s gunna suck. I can’t see everythin’ and even if I could, I got to play by those rules. But I know the path you’re gunna walk and I know it’s gunna be hard. I’d say I’m sorry but I’m not, ‘cause this ain’t ‘bout you. It’s ‘bout a lot more than you.”

Stone examined his bloodied arms and soaking wet clothes. His body trembled continuously and his legs felt so weak he did not think he could stand. He did not know what he was good at but he knew it was not fighting or survival techniques.

On the other hand, he knew fear. He knew he already missed Ashley and his parents. He knew he could break into hysterical crying at any moment. And he knew that everything the Old Man said sounded so crazy that he might be hallucinating after all.

“I’m not your guy. I can’t do any of that.”

“Hmmm,” said the Old Man as a burst of embers erupted from the fire and drifted away. “Too bad you feel that way. You see, Trevor, you don’t got a choice in this matter. Down inside of you is sometin’ that’s been there since before your daddy and mommy rolled ‘round in the sheets and made you. Part of it is instinct. And you’ve got an instinct for survival. That’s why you made it this far. But I got some good news for you, too. Those rules really do blow moose wad, but I also got some things for you to help out. I got three gifts for you, Trevor. Three gifts that will give you a fightin’ chance; that will give your whole damn race a fightin’ chance.”

“Three…gifts?”

“The first one is pretty easy. When we’re done here your gunna head through these woods along the trail and it’ll take you to a big ole’ lakeside estate. Strong iron fence around it. The fella whose been livin’ there—a real Mr. Fancy Pants business guy who made a shitload of money—well about two years ago he went and started getting’ the funniest notions,” the Old Man winked.

“He started takin’ his millions and millions of dollars and spendin’ it on all sorts of stuff. All sorts of survival-guy stuff. You’re gunna find shit in that place that would make G. Gordon Liddy pop a hard one. Food, water, medicine stuff, gear for all occasions, a couple of big fuel tanks buried underground to run a couple of big ‘ole generators that power the whole place. Cars and motor bikes and batteries and radios. And man, are you gunna find guns. Most of em’ very illegal.”

Guns did not impress Richard and they would do him no good. As his dad had pointed out the night before, he would probably shoot his foot off.

Still, he asked, “What about the man who owns the house? Will he help?”

“God, you and your questions,” the Old Man’s voice sounded more amused than annoyed. “Poor bastard had a heart attack two days ago at his office cross town. He won’t be needin’ none of it. No family. Nuttin’ to worry ‘bout. He kept a spare key under the front mat and had a strange notion to go leavin’ the main gate open.”

Stone asked, “Another link in the chain?”

The Old Man ignored the question.

“Now, as to the second gift. Well you already got that one but you’re too shell-shocked to know it. When you get to the house that’s when you’ll realize that one. I guess I kind of lied when I said you don’t have no friends no more.”

The man chuckled at what must have been an inside joke.

“When you get to the house, go inside. Clean up your self. Grab a bite to eat. You’ll find lotsa coolers runnin’ on the generator stocked with all sorts of good stuff. But pace yourself…its got to last a while.”

“The third gift? What is it…food?”

The Old Man leaned forward. His eyes widened. The flames burned hotter.

“When you got a full belly and feelin’ better, you go on down to the basement of that house. You’ll find a gray door stuck in a corner behind a hot water heater. It’s locked.”

Rich felt something in his clenched fist. He opened his hand and found a silver key. He fidgeted in surprise at the sight of the key. He had never seen it before. He had not felt the key in his grasp until the Old Man spoke of it.

“Open the door and go down there and get your third gift. Oh and Trevor, the first two gifts you’re gunna have to share. The third gift…that’s only for you. Just you.”

A cold breeze reminded Rich he wore wet clothes. His teeth chattered.

The Old Man watched the fire and told Richard Trevor Stone, “Sooner or later, when you get your head ‘bout you, you’re gunna think that you’ve got all this figured out. Your gunna think you know what’s goin’ on. But you don’t. This ain’t some sort of straight up alien invasion like those Ed Wood movies. This ain’t simple at all. There’s a lot more goin’ on around here than you can even imagine. A lot more than you need to know. That’s why there’s rules.

“So don’t bother tryin’ to figure it all out. Go and survive, Trevor Stone. Survive whilst the storm blows through. It’ll calm down after a spell. Then you’ll have to start fightin’. And all the time you have to be ready to sacrifice for the good of the ‘cause. I can’t talk much more than that ‘cause of them rules. But understand, you’re probably thinkin’ that sacrifice means takin’ a bullet for someone or belly floppin’ on a grenade in a foxhole. That ain’t it. Sometimes the hardest sacrifice is living. And that’s what you must do. You must go on living.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Don’t bother tryin’. Now go…get movin’. I can’t protect you. Remember that. And I’m not here like some sort of third lifeline on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire.’ I’ve done for you what I can do. Now you got to get behind that big fence and hope it’s enough to keep you safe for a while. Until you’re ready. Now go.”

He staggered to his feet. His body complained with aches.

“I don’t know if I should thank you.”

“Shit no, you don’t wanna thank me. Before long, you’re gunna hate me. You’re gunna think this a curse. Just always remember, it ain’t about you.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good luck, Trevor,” the Old Man smiled a creepy grin. “You’re gunna need it.”

*

Sunlight turned to twilight by the time Richard and his escort emerged from the woods and came upon a large lake. Richard recognized the place as Harveys Lake, the biggest natural lake in all of Pennsylvania.

Permanent homes mixed with seasonal summer cottages around the five-mile circumference of Harveys Lake which, when seen from the air, resembled a “T” shape. A perimeter road surrounded the lake.

Usually the lake hosted speedboats and water skiers on late June evenings but tonight no sightseers cruised the road, no boats splashed on the waters; the homes and cottages dark. He heard no sounds save the lap of waves.

Richard recognized his new home immediately. The large estate—surrounded by a tall, black iron fence—sat isolated except for two neighbors: a silent A-frame on one side, a small white church fifty yards in the other direction.

They walked the grassy shoulder between the fence and the road until reaching the open main gate.

A driveway climbed a slight grade toward the east-facing main house through a perfectly manicured lawn dotted with ornamental trees. A six-car garage with apartments on top rested in the northern quadrant of the grounds. Other, smaller buildings hid among the trees on the back half of the lot in the shadow of a mountain.

The house hinted at Victorian roots but without an abundance of gothic flavor and lacking the busy, crowded appearance associated with the Queen Anne phase. Indeed, the style was best characterized by a lack thereof.

Nevertheless, the mansion stood two stories and stretched wide and deep dominating the grounds. The structure’s origin dated at least a hundred years, but it stood proud in immaculate condition. No doubt its ancestry lay with the coal barons and railroad tycoons who had made Harveys Lake their retreat in the days when anthracite mining ruled northeastern Pennsylvania.

Thick round pillars lined the big front porch while a second-floor balcony afforded a king’s view of the lake yet he saw very little in the way of decorative flair or aesthetic touches.

While he found his new home quite impressive despite the lack of panache, it held his attention for only a brief moment. A more dramatic sight beckoned as he came to understand the second gift.

They emerged from behind trees, around the corner of the garage, even from the bushes lining the sides of the house.

Rich saw several big black and tan Rottweilers; a couple of intimidating Doberman Pinschers, even two Elkhounds nearly matching Tyr and Odin in color.

Still more came: several German Shepherds; a few Golden Retrievers; a couple of bushy Siberian Huskies; a handful of black and white Border Collies and even more he did not recognize.

These were not pretty show animals ready for parade. They were the fierce soldiers and brawny workers and keen hunters that hundreds and, in some cases, thousands of years of genes and breeding and natural selection had sent forth to truly be man’s best friend.

One thought came to Richard’s mind.

No, not a thought, a communication.

What will you have us do, Master?

Night

“Night, the mother of fear and mystery, was coming upon me.”

—H.G.Wells, War of the Worlds.

The next day, Richard sat on the kitchen’s hardwood floor leaning against a cabinet, his head cradled on arms crossed over knees. Rays of light from the late-afternoon sun tried to push through the window above the sink but the forest-covered mountain behind the estate allowed only flickers.

He concentrated on the sound of a wall clock tick-tick-ticking away. It told him much.

The ticking clock told him the generators had not kicked on meaning the electricity flowing throw the mansion came from Pennsylvania Power and Light.

Each tick spoke of another moment past; another moment Richard Trevor Stone lived. How many people died in that same moment? How many Ashleys vaporized? How many Bobby Westons crushed? How many fathers and mothers mutilated to the point that a son could mistake them for shaggy, rolled carpets?

Richard jumped to his feet and slammed both fists on the island counter. A cup and saucer rattled.

Tick, tick, tick.

He saw them hovering in the hall. Tyr and Odin stood at the lead of a line of dogs crowded together, their eyes focused on him.

Per the Old Man’s instructions, Rich had cleaned himself up and collapsed on the living room sofa for a night of surprisingly restful sleep, and then raided the commercial-grade coolers and pantry for food.

Of course, he realized the second gift but did not know how to use it. He could…he could…sense them thinking. Not voices, not quite. Images, but not pictures. More like feelings.

That strange key lay on the counter, exactly where he had left it upon returning from the basement earlier that afternoon. Richard grabbed it and faced the window over the sink. He caressed the key between thumb and forefinger.

Now this. The thing in the basement. No, beneath the basement. The key led to a place much deeper than any man’s cellar. Down there, behind the cabinet next to the water heater in a tiny room waited a door that Richard opened with a key meant only for him.

What he found down there had been bright and painful, sort of. It caused him to feel lightheaded and he still did not know its purpose. He wondered if he had retreated too quickly. Perhaps he needed to do something. Push a switch? A chant? A magic spell? A—

“WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?”

He yelled to no one. The dogs shifted uneasily but remained focused on him. Waiting.

A small songbird raced by the window, chirping farewell to the day. A subtle wind swayed branches.

Tick, tick, tick.

Richard stuffed the key into a pocket in the navy blue sweat pants he wore with a matching sweat jacket. The clothes came from a gargantuan closet filled with outfits in his size, even though the man in the pictures above the mantle appeared fifty pounds heavier and half a foot taller.

After taking a deep breath, he faced the dogs.

“What do you want from me?”

We are yours to command.

The answer did not come in words; it came in some other manner that his mind translated into language. It did not come from their mouths, for their jaws did not move; they made no sounds.

“How is it you know what I’m saying?”

We are yours to command.

“How can I hear you? I don’t hear your voice. Am I reading your mind? Are you reading my mind?”

No answer.

He stepped closer and thought ‘sit.’

The dogs did nothing.

He spoke aloud, “Sit.”

The dogs did nothing.

He closed his eyes and pictured the dogs sitting. He opened his eyes and saw that, once again, they had done nothing. He tried again. He summoned the image of a dog sitting and, at the same time, called, “Sit.”

All the dogs in the hall sat. They sat fast and perfect, as if snapping to attention. The cumulative sound of so many canine rumps hitting the floor created a solid thump.

“I have to speak. You have to hear my voice. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? Something in the eye contact; something in my vocal cords, and my thoughts. Something in the combination, brain waves and vocal cords or something. I dunno. Maybe…maybe it’s like ultraviolet light. Yeah, I mean, some light has shorter wavelengths then visible light and people can’t see it. But bumblebees can see ultraviolet light. Amazing. Must be something like…like…”

Richard cocked his head to one side.

“How the hell do I know that?”

The lightheadedness returned. He snapped his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand while the other steadied himself against the kitchen island. He saw a laboratory and men wearing goggles working near a big tube of mercury vapors as they prepared to activate an electric current that would artificially generate UV rays.

Not a dream…memories.

He found his balance but his body shook; it shook from fear. Basic fear much as he had felt when confronting the thing that killed his parents. Except this time, he felt no fight instinct only flight: the urge to escape.

“This is a mistake. Do you hear me? This is for someone else, not me!”

He strode directly at the mass of dogs. They parted, making way for their master.

We are yours to command.

“I don’t want to command! There’s been a mistake!”

Like a spine, the hall ran the length of the mansion from back to front and Richard walked it at a fast clip. He passed the first floor guestroom, the den, the dining room, the front stairs leading to the second floor, and the living room with the big fireplace. He exited the front door, crossed the porch, and plod over the lawn. He marched for the main gate. The dogs followed in two columns.

Last night, when he arrived, he left the gate open because he did not know how to close it. As he walked through this time, he remembered that two keypads—one on each side of the fence—could open and close the gate with the correct entry code; a code he now remembered. Where those memories came from presented a bigger question, but a question he no longer cared to have answered. Or, rather, he feared the answer.

What is happening to me?

Fully gassed cars, motorbikes, and more waited in the garage, but Richard wanted nothing to do with any of it. He did not want the three gifts. He would leave the same way he had arrived: on foot.

At the first bend in the road, he came upon a white and blue Harveys Lake police cruiser idling on the shoulder near a lakeside boathouse. Static crackled from the radio therein.

“Hello! Police!”

Richard sighed in relief as a uniformed policeman rose from the far side of the car. And kept rising.

The policeman rose ten feet into the air as the front half of his torso stuck out from the maw of a ten-foot long red and white worm. Surrounding the jagged fangs along its round mouth watched black and red eyes. That mouth sucked in the lifeless officer in gulps. One…two… three…gone.

It eyed Richard straddling the yellow lines in the middle of the road. Its round mouth hissed; the fangs worked out and in, the ribs along its tubular body moved the creature forward as if swimming. It bumped the squad car as it hurried toward new prey, causing the vehicle to skid sideways; the tires chirped.

Its mouth and fangs spread open. Sickly secretions dribbled and a smell like rotting garbage gust out as it lunged.

A German Shepherd leapt in front of Richard, jumping into that lunging mouth; becoming the predator’s next meal in place of the master. The other dogs rushed forward and barked furiously at the worm-thing as it swallowed the yapping Shepherd.

Rich watched with his eyes fixed not so much on the creature but on what the dog had done.

Its hunger satiated, the worm swam away across the pavement, disappearing along the muddy bank under a boathouse.

Richard ran back to the estate. The dogs swarmed in behind. He entered the code from memories he should not have and the heavy fence closed, locking out the world.

Dozens of dogs hovered around in a semi-circle as he collapsed on the front porch.

“Go watch the front gate or something. Leave me alone!”

All the dogs trotted to the front gate and spread along the fence watching the road and raising their noses to the air searching the wind.

Rich watched in amazement.

Yours to command.

He finally understood.

The dogs were his. They did not merely belong to him; they were an extension of him. They would do his bidding without question. He could order them to jump into the lake and they would, one after another. They would leap into the mouths of monsters—gladly sacrifice themselves—so he could live. They would follow his orders completely, without wondering if those orders were right or wrong, no moral judgments, and no arguments.

Tyr bound to his master and relayed what the acute canine noses and ears sensed in the air. He relayed that information through feelings and impulses: feelings and impulses Rich’s mind translated into something like words.

People in homes, some alive some dead. Musty smell of something big in the woods to the east. Guns firing on the far side of the lake. Helicopter coming.

Richard stood and drifted across the lawn. After a minute, a green dual-rotor Chinook chopped overhead flying west to east, the sound bounced around the lake basin.

Should he signal the helicopter? Might they rescue him?

No. Whatever the helicopter’s destination, it flew to a place more dangerous than the estate. The world out there, beyond the fence, was disintegrating piece by piece.

Richard could not comprehend why these gifts had been granted to him of all people. However, he now knew he belonged at the estate. It was his; he owned it. Just like the dogs. The man before had merely been a caretaker.

The helicopter disappeared beyond the mountains.

*

Richard pushed aside the plate of crumbs that had been a roast beef sandwich minutes before. He reached to the carpeted dining room floor and grabbed the rifle he had found in the elaborate basement armory.

Even before arriving at the estate, Richard would have recognized the gun as a military assault rifle. Now he knew more.

He held a Colt M4 carbine. The weapon weighed a hair under six pounds, sported a barrel length of fourteen point five inches, fired with a muzzle velocity of 2,900 feet per second and energy of 1,645 Joules, all while shooting the full range of 5.56 millimeter ammunition within an effective range of 600 meters.

No instruction manual came with the rifle; he did not read about the specifications of the M4, he remembered them.

Stone stood and the gun settled into position against his shoulder in a manner consistent with the army handbook. That day marked the first time in his life he ever held such a thing, yet it felt familiar to him.

“Yes, I know how to do this. I remember.”

With his finger inching toward the trigger, he aimed toward a chair at the far end of the table through the iron sites, envisioning it to be—

The dining room blurred and disappeared; his balance wavered. The walls of the mansion no longer surrounded him. He stood on a dusty street against a stone and mud dwelling. Metal cookware hanging from a drying line strung across the tight passage rattled in a gust of wind. A pair of goggles protected his eyes from grains of sand and dirt blowing around. He heard a voice over a radio talking to his unit leader.

“Repeat, Super Six-Four is down. Chalk four, what’s your ETA to the crash sight?”

Shouts behind him.

“Skinnies!”

“Technical in the square!”

A burst of machinegun fire.

A Toyota pick up truck rolled into a dilapidated square in front of the soldiers. A man wearing a bandana over his face fired rounds from a heavy machine gun mounted in the truck’s bed while a mass of civilians carrying AK-47s followed behind the Toyota.

His shots killed two of the militiamen, but for every one that fell another swarmed in from a side street, or a rooftop, or an alleyway.

“RPG!”

An explosion knocked him…

…to the dining room.

Richard dropped the weapon and staggered. His hand grabbed the high-backed chair at the head of the table but he managed only to pull it to the ground with him. Man, chair, and carbine fell to the floor.

Tyr, the Norwegian Elkhound, raced in.

Are you injured?

*

Tall shelves lined the walls of the largest room on the second floor. On those shelves, he found maps, charts, and reference books covering topics from plumbing to computing. Like the rest of the mansion, the style resembled something vaguely Victorian but without the usual frills.

A door led from that library to the master bedroom and its attached full bath. The antique bed and dressers there gave the room a cozy, old-world feel as did a big thick rug and a barrel-top desk dating to the early 1900s.

Stone rested the M4 on a nightstand, took off his sweat jacket, and sat on the bed. Tyr and Odin stood nearby.

After falling over in the dining room, he had focused on communicating with the dogs. Following two hours of trial-and-error, he managed to organize them into groups, including several patrols of three assigned to walk the perimeter fence while others occupied static guard positions.

Rich gave Tyr and Odin quick pats on the head.

“I’m getting the hang of this. You guys are starting to understand me, and this whole memory thing…well I’ve never felt like this before.”

With each passing hour, he realized the power of the gifts, particularly the power of knowledge.

“Boy, things would have been a lot easier in the old days with something like this. I mean, if my car broke I had to pay fifty bucks an hour for some grease monkey to tell me there’s a loose wire. What if I could fix things that broke or I knew all the answers about financing without going to Mr. Munroe? I mean…really.”

With the knowledge unlocked in his new memories came confidence and strength. He would not shoot his foot with the guns. He could plant a garden and grow vegetables and he felt the keen instincts of a hunter so if the pantry ran empty he could slay white tailed deer or rabbit, skinning and harvesting those kills with the skill of a seasoned taxidermist and butcher.

What kind of person would he have been in the old world with the benefit of these memories?

Such confidence would have spawned the ambition Mr. Trump thought Dick lacked. With the memories of the world’s greatest entrepreneurs, he could have turned his business degree from that community college into a thriving enterprise. With the expertise of a veteran financial planner, his investments would have turned to gold. Imagine how fast he would have climbed from third string Safety to starter with the memories of football’s greatest players!

Perhaps one did not need supernatural powers to be superman; perhaps it merely required knowledge.

“Wouldn’t that have been something, huh guys?”

No reaction from Tyr or Odin.

Richards’s cheerfulness faded.

“Oh, I get it. No small talk, is that it? We’re not going to share any jokes? Tell me, why do dogs sniff the butts of other dogs?”

He laughed.

The dogs did not respond.

Richard stopped laughing.

“I see. Well, even with you around, I’m still alone, aren’t I?”

The dogs did not respond.

“Okay then. Good night.”

Before his fingers touched the light switch, the room went dark. The stream of power from the outside world finally ceased.

He froze in the darkness for one second…two…three.

Richard heard a distant click followed by a whir. He heard circuits snap and felt electricity flow through the building again, but when the light came back on it shined a shade dimmer.

He swallowed hard.

“The generator kicked on.”

It felt as if the drawbridge rose above the moat, cutting off his castle from the world.

Richard sucked a deep breath. The memories from the man who lived there before presented a mental checklist: The generators are working, but I’ll need to start maintaining them now. Spare parts are in the garage. Keep an eye on the coolers. If anything goes wrong on a hot day those coolers will lose temperature in a few hours and spoil everything. Be sure to check the wiring again. The last thing I need would be for…

“Enough! Everything is fine. Go to sleep. The dogs are keeping watch, I have this gun here, everything is going to be fine. I’m just going to hold up and see what happens.”

He switched the light off and lay in bed. The night before—the first night—he had fallen to sleep fast on the sofa from pure exhaustion. The second night went much different.

Every noise sounded mental alarms. A gentle breeze or the breath of a gigantic beast? The coolers downstairs humming away or the flapping wings of a nocturnal predator? The crunch of canine footpads on patrol, or an extraterrestrial hunter stalking the estate?

Richard fidgeted and rolled. He flipped the pillow over and over. He drifted into drowsiness only to jump awake at the thought of approaching horror.

Long after midnight but hours before dawn, barking dogs kept him awake. First one, then a second, then a chorus of growls and snarls from outside. His eyes popped open and he lay still in the bed, listening.

Tyr hurried into the bedroom. A communication came clearly: something trying to get in.

“Chase it away,” he said as much a hope as an order.

Too big.

Whatever threatened the grounds needed to be dispatched by Richard’s arsenal.

The dogs outside yapped and howled yet Rich did not move. He did not want to move. He would stay in bed and hope for the best.

Then something else caught his attention. A sound? A tremor? Not the dogs barking or the monster prowling: this came from inside the mansion and he knew—instinctively knew—it to be different.

Energy? No, that was not quite right although as his brain tried to categorize this sensation it translated the feeling into growing noise or increasing power. The source? Again, inside. Somewhere…somewhere below.

Yes, that was it. The place beneath the basement. The place where the key led.

Down there under the heavy stone foundation and deep beneath the ground lived the third gift from the Old Man: the thing that gave Richard the memories of the professor studying UV rays, the experiences of the soldier wielding a carbine, the plans of the man who had owned the mansion before him, and many other memories that would take months—years—to fully know.

His mind’s translation of that sensation tuned finer; he understood the sensation grew not because it became louder or increased in power, but because it moved closer. Closer to him.

This time, the third gift did not wait for him to use the key. It reached from the depths beyond the locked door, rising into the basement and toward the stairs.

Richard sat up. The dogs continued to bark and growl. He heard shrubs and trees ruffle as something big probed the perimeter fence for a means of entry.

And still the third gift rose through the mansion: the first floor hallway…the steps to the second floor…up it came…

He shivered and sweat. It was supposed to stay down there until he needed it! Why did it come out? It had no business leaving its hiding place.

…the top of the stairs…into the library…

“Go away!”

The power of the third gift poured into his room like a gust of wind. He grabbed his head with both hands and shut his eyes, refusing its invasion but he stood no chance.

The Old Man’s voice said, “What, Trevor, you thought this gift came for free? You didn’t think there’d be a price to pay?”

Memories and experiences blasted into his mind: the soldier lugging his M4 on patrol under an African sun, the big man who owned the mansion driving a luxury sedan with a cigar dangling from his lips.

“You think you can just hold up here until the cavalry arrives? Oh, now Trevor, don’t you get it? You ARE the cavalry. Everything in here, it’s for you but it comes with a price, Trev. Now let’s settle up that bill, shall we?”

Richard left the bedroom behind for a bright hot day on a dusty street where a column of soldiers darted between buildings, threatened by mobs of ragtag militia.

“Two skinnies on the roof!”

“Chalk Four, get your asses to the crash site!”

“Move, move, move.”

As he jogged around a burned-out car, something bounced off what metal remained on the frame. Something else exploded in the dirt near his heavy boots. Those somethings were bullets.

He raised his carbine and returned fire.

“Keep moving! Go! Go! Go!”

A “Little Bird” MH-6 helicopter flew fast and low overhead, sweeping its mini-guns across an intersection and blowing a tornadic swirl around the advancing soldiers.

More bullets came from open windows and from behind burning tires serving as makeshift barricades. One of the ‘skinnies’ poked his head around a corner and shot. Rich raised his rifle but found no strength. His arms simply would not rise. Then he fell backwards as if someone swept his feet out.

The pain came next. A hot, searing sensation around his collarbone.

What is this?

His limp body bounced against the hard dirty ground. He felt his Kevlar helmet roll away.

A voice hollered, “Man down! Medic!”

Rich could not feel the tips of his fingers or his toes but he did feel the terrible burning near his neck. He wanted to put a hand on the hot spot but his arms would not respond.

Then he was moving again, dragged by the straps of his assault vest.

“Hey! Hey, stay with us! You hear me?”

The voice faded.

He no longer felt his arms or his legs. Something funny about his breathing, too. It felt…his breaths felt…wet. He coughed. Something warm tickled over his lips.

I am dying. All for what? Did I make a difference?

One last shiver traveled his spine and his body twitched. The numbness moved inward, sweeping over his chest and covering his eyes…

…Richard—sitting in bed on sweat-soaked sheets—gasped as if he had been holding his breath. A feeling like static electricity hung all around. A balance remained…

…The man stood at an office window gazing at the eclectic mix of old and new buildings in downtown Wilkes-Barre. The remains of a loaded Philadelphia Style Cheese Steak—his favorite—lay half-eaten on a massive leather-trimmed desk.

Rich felt the sadness in the man as he thought about all the preparations at the mansion. The man knew those preparations were not for him. He served as a tool. After everything he had accomplished in his life, all the jobs he created, all the investments that paid big dividends, he found that, in the end, he was merely an implement of something far greater than himself.

Some power consumed him—perhaps for longer than he realized—consumed him to the point of chasing away family and friends. The irregular pounding in his chest suggested that the time to discard the tool fast arrived.

The man knew something bad was coming to the world; a thousand horrible ways to die waited on the doorstep. The growing pain in his chest would be his reward, sparing him a more horrible fate.

A sense of purpose drove him for years; a purpose he could not explain to his partners or family because he could not explain that purpose to himself. Like an addict in the throws of addiction, that purpose forced him to inexplicable behavior. He bought guns and generators, tons of food for people and dogs, constructed fuel tanks into the beautiful grounds of his multi-million dollar estate, built a helicopter pad for a man who owned no helicopter, sold a classic Porsche for military Humvees and a modified RV. The list went on and on.

He stood at the window and felt his heart chug. The last pinholes of circulation in an artery filled and closed. A strain grew in his chest and caused fire to race through his veins. A soft gasp puffed from his lungs; he hunched over and rolled to the floor.

Whoever you are, the man thought in his dying moments, make it all mean something…

…Richard clutched his chest and felt the fast beat of his own healthy heart.

Yet a balance remained. More memories flooded in, memories stretching hundreds of years, generation after generation of Americans, Europeans, Africans, Asians, and more. Each contributing skills to help him fight and survive in the days, weeks, months and years ahead. Dying moments and shattered dreams; the anguish of great hopes dashed by a twist of fate; the collective triumphs and failures of his race, he made them all his own.

The third gift gave Richard—no, Trevor—everything he needed to fight on behalf of his people, and a charge to give it meaning. The weight of the world, the Old Man had warned, was coming down on Trevor Stone’s shoulders. Now he carried that weight.

He had never felt so responsible. Indeed, he had never truly understood the word ‘responsibility’ before. Not like this. Not the way in which Presidents and Doctors felt responsibility. The responsibility of life and death; of nations and cultures; for things much greater than any one person.

For a species.

After a while, he fell out of bed. Tyr stood and watched stoically, relaying the need for help. The dogs still barked. The intruder still searched for a point of entry.

Trevor paused on his hands and knees on the thick rug. His stomach tied into a knot, his arms quivered, beads of sweat covered his body, his breath came in bursts.

The weight of the world.

He hauled himself to his feet, wavered, and then found his strength.

The first night at the estate he had not known what to think or do. By the second night, he accepted his gifts but, arrogantly, thought there no consequences. Now he realized he had much to learn. And much to do.

It would take time and it would take change. Just as the knowledge imparted to him by the third gift gave him confidence and strength, the price of that knowledge and the responsibility to be worthy of receiving it, sat inside his belly like a seed of things to come; a cold seed he would nurture with commitment, patience, and focus. A seed that would sprout and grow and swallow whole the man who had been Richard and give life to Trevor. There could be nothing other than the one purpose.

He grabbed the carbine bought for him by the man who had once owned the estate. He marched from his bedroom armed with the expertise to make that weapon precise and lethal; knowledge granted by a dead soldier.

Outside waited the first of many nightmares he must face; nightmares that haunted the long night into which he and his people descended.

Fugitive

Late June turned into the deep heat of July and August followed by the shorter days and chilly nights of mid September.

There should have been pep rallies and football games, back-to-school sales and a new fall schedule of prime time TV.

Instead, insects swarmed the streets drawn to and born from a legion of bloated cadavers. The airwaves offered only static and no electricity lived in the wires between power poles. Smoke drifted over disintegrated neighborhoods, the result of block fires burning unchallenged. Flipped cars littered the overpasses and silent swing sets swayed on empty playgrounds.

Mankind’s machinery and vehicles, buzzing electronic transformers and humming streetlights, made no sound. The combined chorus of humanity’s footprint had been silenced and that silence roared.

Strange creatures lived on the streets, no longer interlopers but part of an altered ecosystem of new predators and new prey. Some organized, many not.

The world of man had been cut, diced, and scattered.

*

A red Corvette sped west on the Cross Valley Expressway, swerving first to avoid an abandoned SUV, then again to dodge a jackknifed 18-wheeler, but it dared not slow.

Four smaller vehicles that could have been the bastard offspring of a Jet Ski and snow mobile pairing pursued the Corvette. These strange craft rode on cushions of air, each piloted by rugged humanoids hooting and hollering as they gave chase.

The swarm and the swarmed raced along the expressway across the Susquehanna, through the rock cut in the western wall of the valley, and into the “Back Mountain.” They passed a bank and a gas station, fast food restaurants, strip malls, and a soft ice cream stand that suffered its worst summer in years.

The pursuers wore a material resembling leather. They worked their rides close to the ‘Vette, swinging and jabbing with their collection of primitive weapons: oblong maces, cone-shaped daggers, and straps lined with blades.

The Corvette swooped around a bend at high speed and entered an intersection linking four small roads. A mound of junked cars woven together by a sticky secretion blocked that intersection. Dusty bones lay on the pavement around what had once been a predator’s nest. Vacant or not, that nest threatened to claim another victim.

Rubber smoked from the tires as the brakes struggled to slow the car and the driver fought with the wheel for control. The ‘Vette missed the mound…almost: the front quarter panel clipped the grille of a late 70’s Mercury Marquis jutting from the mountain of captured cars.

Both front tires burst as the fleeing coupe ricocheted into the curb, spun across the front lot of a gas station, through the empty pumps, and smashed sideways into the boarded storefront.

Meanwhile, the hover bikes easily dodged the nest and coasted to a stop behind the disabled Chevy.

A woman staggered from the driver’s side and fell to the pavement; her hand splashed in a stream of hot lime-green anti-freeze from the split radiator.

Last spring she wore the best designer clothes, made reservations at $50-an-entrée restaurants, and hung on the arm of a boyfriend who bought her a Corvette from Edgar Chevrolet.

Those designer clothes were gone, exchanged for rough jeans and muddy tennis shoes. The $50 entrées had been supplanted by cans of tuna fish and worse. The boyfriend who bought the Corvette had met his fate as lunch for something big and slithery that had battered open the door to his townhouse last July.

In the months since the world disintegrated, Sheila Evans dropped twenty-five pounds on the Milky Way and Pepsi diet. Her once well-groomed hair now lice-infested; her formerly manicured nails now jagged from nervous biting.

Her pursuers dismounted and approached.

Similar in some ways to human beings, these aliens sported two arms and two legs. They had heads, too, but their heads were less round and more oval, almost egg-shaped. A massive, oversized mouth dominated their pale faces. Tiny little eyes rested above small flaps that might have been nostrils.

“Stay back!” she held a hand aloft as if to shoo them away.

She had seen what these things do to people.

She had seen what these things do to women.

Sheila slumped against her car and cried while the gang approached with horrifying grins on their oversized mouths. The leader licked its forked tongue over serrated teeth.

That leader…fell to the ground.

No, the leader’s chest exploded, pushing it to the ground.

The other three produced bulky firearms akin to flintlock pistols.

A second creature fell as half its head exploded.

Sheila scampered on her hands and knees to the front of the Corvette and coincidentally gained a better view and a better understanding of the situation.

Catty-corner from the crash site in a bank parking lot someone—an honest-to-God-human being— propped a rifle on the hood of an abandoned car and sniped her attackers.

The big-mouthed mutants scrambled for shelter behind the rear hatch of the Corvette and returned fire, their pistols booming like cannons. The Mutants’ flintlocks delivered a powerful punch, but only fired one round at a time. Sheila heard the ugly things grumble as they reloaded.

Bullets and flintlock fire exchanged; a metallic-smelling cloud of smoke gathered overhead but she quickly realized that the man confronting the Mutants consistently fired high.

Suddenly, a series of new sounds displaced the chaotic chorus of bullets and blasts: a fierce growl, a bark, and a scream from one of the hover bike riders, then grunts of pain and a disturbing tearing noise. The gunfire ceased. The growls and shredding slowed then stopped.

A breeze blew through the gas station, dissipating the cloud of gunpowder.

The sniper left cover and crossed the street toward her.

Sheila realized the intentionality of his poor marksmanship: to keep the monsters pinned and distracted. But distracted from what?

Curiosity overcame fear. She stood and walked slowly toward the rear of the car. There she found the remains of the Mutants; arms torn off, throats ripped, and legs lacerated.

Four dogs hovered over the dead monsters. She recognized two as German Shepherds. The other two wore heavy black and gray coats with curly tails and white underbellies.

Sheila, terrified, hastily withdrew but tripped over a dead Mutant and fell to the pavement again. Her savior’s shadow cast across her prone form.

Stubble adorned his cheeks but no outright beard. Long but kempt hair rested on his shoulders. He wore heavy gray pants and a black T-shirt underneath a military vest. A black baseball cap topped the ensemble with a thigh rig and holster strapped to his legs.

For a moment, Sheila wondered if she had exchanged inhuman attackers for a human one.

He asked, “Are you hurt?”

She was malnourished. She had cuts that would not heal and bruises that would not fade because her body was vitamin-deprived. Bugs lived in her hair and cold sores lined her mouth. Yet she answered, “I’m fine.”

Sheila tensed as the dogs approached.

The man said to them, “All dead?”

It appeared he listened to unspoken words before responding, “Good. Sweep the rear of the building quick, then we’re out of here.”

Amazingly, the dogs moved off in haphazard formation.

The man returned his attention to Sheila.

“I’m Trevor. You got lucky. This was my first day out this far. If this had happened yesterday you’d be dinner or worse for those Mutants.”

“Do I…Do I know you?”

“No. No one knows me.”

She did not bother wondering what that meant.

“Listen,” he explained in a tone that bordered on indifference. “I’ve got a safe place. You can come with me if you’d like. I’ve got food and you can get cleaned up.”

Demeanor notwithstanding, she saw something in him she had not seen in a long, long time: confidence and strength.

He slung the assault rifle over his shoulder, held a hand to Sheila, and then lifted her easily as if she were a paper doll.

The two walked across the street to the bank parking lot. Trevor guided her to a camouflage-painted Humvee. After helping her inside, he whistled to his dogs. They galloped across the intersection to the car.

One of the black and gray canines approached him directly while the other three jumped in the rear cargo bed.

“Nothing? Good. Hop in, Tyr.”

The hound did as commanded. Trevor sat behind the wheel, started the car, and drove them away.

*

They traveled northwest on Route 415 passing office buildings nestled on tree-lined lots, a bowling alley, and scattered houses. Ten minutes after leaving the bank parking lot, they arrived at Harveys Lake.

Mid-sized, wooded mountains surrounded the large lake on all sides, creating the impression of a massive, odd-shaped bowl. A small road ran the rim of that bowl between the homes on the mountainsides and the boathouses on the water.

Trevor swung the Humvee onto that perimeter road. The summer and permanent homes around the lake—most grand, others bland; several very old others very new—sat quiet.

Sheila gazed at the houses hoping people might stand on their porch and wave.

“Are there people living out here?”

“I searched most of the houses already. I’ve only found hostiles.”

“Hostiles?”

“That’s what I call anything that wasn’t on this Earth before all this. Most of the houses around here are just empty now.”

Sheila asked, “But, where did all the people go?”

“Some were killed in town, I suppose. Some died at home. Others followed the advice of the idiots on the radio back in July sending everyone to rescue stations at schoolhouses and government buildings. Bad idea. Those stations got overrun.”

Trevor seemed uninterested in conversation. His eyes focused to either side of the road, as if on guard for ambush. She searched for something to say.

“So…a…do you live with anyone? I mean, other than your dogs?”

Trevor corrected, “K9s. And no, I don’t live with anyone else.”

Silence again and this time it stuck for several minutes until he finally said, “We’re here.”

‘Here’ referred to a large home—a mansion—on the safe side of a tall black iron fence. He pushed a button on a garage-door control and the front gate slid open.

Sheila surveyed the estate from the passenger’s seat of the truck.

The driveway traversed a gentle upward slope as it approached the house. A two-story garage with apartments above occupied a fair chunk of the grounds. Sheila could not guess the purpose of the round slab of concrete with the big white “H” in the center. Whatever its use, it dominated a wide-open clearing to the side of the mansion.

The grounds stretched off into a wooded area behind the main home. She saw more buildings and possibly a barn, back there.

As the Humvee pulled toward the main house, Sheila experienced an anxious twitch as she realized Trevor commanded many more dogs. They moved around the lawn and buildings with purpose. This was not an oversized kennel or a guy who collected dogs the way old ladies fill their homes with cats. Order and discipline governed the animals.

She watched two groups of three dogs—Dobermans and Rottweilers—march along the inside of the fence. Others sat straight and still at what must be guard positions; two at the main gate, two on the front porch, more by the garage.

Another dog hustled to the end of the driveway and sat rigidly awaiting the arrival of its superior. Its Master.

When the Humvee halted, the four-legged riders in the cargo bay jumped out as did Trevor, leaving Sheila alone in the car. She grabbed the door handle but hesitated.

A legion of dogs roamed the grounds. All fierce, strong, sturdy, and mean; no toy breeds in sight.

Trevor faced the waiting dog, a Doberman Pinscher. The animal moved its head slightly and its eyes focused on Trevor. If it made noise, that noise did not reach Sheila’s ears. Regardless, it communicated—on some level—with the Master.

Trevor nodded and then craned his neck, searching the skies.

Sheila finally got out but stayed against the car door.

“A devilbat tried to land in the compound after I left this morning. They scared if off but those things tend to come back.”

“A devilbat?”

“I’ve tried to catalog everything…everything new. A devilbat is sort of like a bat but really big. I think there’s one or two over in Shavertown. I’ll have to check it out.”

“That’s, um, great, I guess. Good little dog—I mean, K9.”

She stepped away from the car as hesitantly as if she were a baseball runner taking a lead from first. Her step turned into a wobble. Trevor grabbed her arm and steadied her stance.

“We had better get you inside. This might be too much for you right now.”

*

Sheila spent most of that first evening in a hot bath filled with water from the estate’s deep well. She washed away the grime, the stench, and even a few bugs but—most of all—she washed away the memories of that hellish summer, sending them down the drain with a layer of filth vigorously scrubbed from her skin.

Trevor outfitted her in new clothes. While not stylish by Sheila’s standards, the rugged pants and shirts did not stink: a big improvement in of itself.

He provided bandages, ointments, and antiseptic solutions to treat her cuts and scrapes as well as simpler things, such as toothpaste and floss, skin moisturizers and deodorant.

For the first time since June, she felt human. Despite the K9s wandering the halls, Sheila believed she found her paradise after serving a summer of penance in Hades.

At dinner, her stomach moaned when Trevor broiled steaks—pulled from a huge freezer—and paired them with garden-fresh vegetables, preserved fruits, and a rich red Sryah.

As they dined that first night, he told her about the farming family he found a few miles away: “A middle aged man and woman with a teenager and an eight year old. They’ve got pigs, cows, a couple of sheep, and a cornfield. We struck a deal. I left a dozen K9s to guard their home and two Border Collies who’ll keep the livestock in line. I’ve got medical supplies they can use and I send them gasoline for their equipment. In return I get meat, vegetables, milk and maybe wool.”

Sheila listened as he explained his plans for a solar power grid. She nodded when he assured that heating, come winter, would not be an issue because of the hybrid furnace capable of burning almost anything, including wood and coal.

By the third day, she wondered if Trevor thought of anything other than food, fuel, or guns. She also wondered if he realized she was a woman. For providing this oasis from the world-gone-mad, she was his for the taking. Gladly. She wanted him to want her. She would willingly play the role of Eve.

Yet he showed no interest. Instead, he wasted time teaching her the basics of firing a gun. He had lots of those in a basement armory. She never saw anything similar, except in movies.

Nonetheless, guns did not interest her. They were loud, dangerous, and even the sight of them frightened her. She refused to carry one.

Trevor started her on a vitamin regiment and administered a series of basic vaccinations and boosters. He handled the needles so well she asked if he had been a doctor. He handled guns so expertly she asked if he had been in the military.

To her questions he answered, “I picked it up.”

She did not believe him, but she did not care. Those were concerns for him, not her.

*

Trevor used the library on the second floor—the one adjacent to the master bedroom—as a ‘Command Center.’ A desk large enough to qualify as a table dominated the center of the room. On it rested unfurled maps and a variety of reference books pulled from the surrounding shelves.

Two large glass doors opened to a balcony overlooking the front grounds and the shimmering lake waters beyond, but pulled drapes and curtains hid that view or, rather, concealed the light of the room from outside eyes. Hiding—survival—remained his top priority.

Late on the fourth night after Sheila’s arrival, Trevor stood in his Command Center hovering over a collection of information spread across the desktop while Tyr and Odin—their eyes barely open—rested in opposite corners of the room.

Different color marks adorned various spots on a map of the “Back Mountain” area. Those marks identified places where he had found hostiles, places where he had found nothing, and places he had yet to search. Those latter marks greatly outnumbered the others.

A long, wide yawn interrupted his thoughts. He knew he should be sleeping; it had been a busy day of gardening, fixing a malfunctioning generator, and changing a leaky tire on a Humvee. He forced himself awake because he wanted to decide on his next search zone before retiring.

Like most of the doors in the mansion, the one to the Command Center stood slightly ajar: as efficient and obedient as the K9s were, they lacked opposable thumbs.

Sheila pushed the door open and paraded in.

He glanced at her, then to his map, then to her again.

She wore a short white robe. With her legs shaved smooth, hair neatly brushed, and her fingernails painted, Sheila strutted forth with an air of confidence.

He leaned against the desk and studied her approach.

“Hi,” she started because she damn well knew he would not begin the conversation. “I’ve been thinking,” she stopped a breath in front of him. “I’ve been thinking that I never thanked you for saving my life. That was wrong of me.”

Sheila let the robe fall away. She was, of course, naked…and gorgeous with the right things in the right places.

She put her hands on his chest. He smelled the strong scent of perfume as she eased her lips to his.

Trevor grabbed her wrists.

“Sheila…”

“It’s okay. I want to. I so want to.”

“I can’t.”

Her seductive face twisted.

“What?”

“I can’t,” he said.

She spat, “What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I’m engaged to be married,” he said and then added a lie: “I think she’s still out there.”

“There’s no one out there, Trevor. No one.”

She smoothed away her anger and pressed against his body. Parts of him ached to take her invitation.

“It’s just you and me. I want to be with you. I need to be with you.”

“I,” he stumbled. For the first time he did not sound in control but he regained that control rather fast. “I can’t.”

He felt her tremble but not with anger; the anger disappeared leaving behind fear. Had she ever faced rejection before?

“Please,” she said in a desperate gasp.

He could not believe he heard that from her lips. It probably killed her to say it. Yet it made no difference.

“Sheila, you’re safe here. That’s all I can offer. My heart…” he did not finish the sentence. He might have said ‘it belongs to someone else’ but Ashley had died, a truth he admitted to himself but to speak it aloud felt wrong.

Whatever part of his heart remained after Ashley had vanished had been beaten down by his new reality; not merely the world outside that iron fence, but the world he built inside it.

Sheila’s lips quivered. Her eyes watered.

Embarrassed, she stooped and grabbed the robe.

“Sheila, I’m sorry,” some left over impulse from his old self caused him to reach for her.

At first, she flinched but no pride remained; she accepted his comfort even in the midst of rejection; humiliation.

He held her to his chest but felt awkward doing it—as if he knew what motions to follow but did not truly feel the compassion he mimicked. Quite the opposite, in fact: he grew angry with her for making him go through the charade.

After a long minute, she wandered off.

Trevor returned to the marks on his map.

*

On the eastern mountainside of the valley sat the small neighborhood of Georgetown, home of the annual “Giants Despair” hill climb: the oldest automotive hill climb in the country. Every July stock cars and modified street rods flocked to the twisty road on the high end of the neighborhood to challenge the steep curves.

Otherwise, Georgetown existed as an average middle class suburb a mile and half from downtown Wilkes-Barre.

Fortunately, for those average middle class suburbanites, the worst of the early apocalyptic onslaught spared Georgetown. The monsters that had foraged through those steep streets came in smaller numbers.

True, those residents who survived the initial waves did so with the ringing of neighbors’ screams in their ears. Yet still, there had been no row house fires and no gigantic spider-things casting webs over entire blocks, in effect the carnage and death remained more personal.

Like watertight hatches on a flooding submarine, the residents of Georgetown barricaded themselves behind locked doors and boarded windows, turning the neighborhood into islands of survivors keeping to themselves in fear of losing what little they had.

Around early August, the peanut butter and bottled water and cans of Chunky soup ran dry. Then pirates sailed forth from those islands. Empty bellies turned the suburbanites into their own breed of monster.

During the latter half of summer, sharp cracks of nighttime gunfire signified either a successful or a very unsuccessful robbery. With time, the violence waned as the islands of survivors withered and died.

One man weathered it all. Before the world changed, he drove a Frito Lay truck. He made it a habit—long before Armageddon—to borrow and stockpile snacks destined for convenience stores and super markets. Those stocks not only helped him survive the summer, but also kept his potbelly intact.

Yet, the Doritos ran out.

So when he heard the preacher’s voice on the street, the potbellied man decided to take a chance.

He pulled aside the curtains and peeked from his island. Outside his window walked a man in black holding what might be a book, most likely a bible. The man in black marched downhill, leading a rag tag group dressed in dirty clothes hanging on scrawny frames and stumbling forward with vacant stares as if sleep walking.

“Come out sinners and repent!” the man of the cloth beckoned in a fiery tone. “I have what you need to survive! The Day of Judgment has come and you shall be saved but only by accepting His tender mercies.”

The potbellied man who had survived on snack foods glanced at the wall above his nineteen-inch color television, the one that had not broadcast any game shows, pay-per-view porn, or wrestling in a long time. There, nailed to the dirty peeling brown wallpaper, glinted a dusty old crucifix reflecting a beam of sunlight slipping in through the parted curtains.

Could this be a sign?

The Frito Lay driver opened his front door—cautiously—as the clergyman’s group moved past. That clergyman had a thin body but broad shoulders. The skin on his face drew tight around his jawbone but his eyes were afire with life. Old, perhaps, but not elderly.

“Father…?” the snack food man called tentatively.

The procession halted. Its leader smiled at the shut-in who desired to hear the good word.

“My son! Come, join us!”

Snack food man descended the concrete steps of his home for the first time in many, many weeks. As he moved he begged, “Father, do you have any food?”

“Yes, my son, plenty of food; especially food for the soul! Join us and partake!”

The potbellied shut-in reached the sidewalk and exclaimed to the preacher, “Oh thank you, Jesus!”

The man in black opened his good book. Except it was not a good book, more of a container.

Things squirmed inside.

“Jesus?” the Father corrected sternly. “No, my son…”

The preacher took one of those things in his fingers and reached toward the snack food man.

“Thank the living God and all his blessings. Come, join The Order and be one with Voggoth. He so desperately wants to be one with you.”

Paradigm Shift

par-a-digm, n. model; pattern.

—Webster’s Dictionary

Trevor Stone slid the metal cabinet in front of the gray door. With the cabinet in place, the small utility room underneath the basement stairs appeared to serve no purpose other than a holding place for the propane-fueled hot water heater.

He kept the key that opened that hidden door on the end of a necklace, which hung out of sight beneath his t-shirt.

Satisfied everything needing hiding had been hid, Trevor exited the glorified closet for the main room of the basement. That room offered a stocked bar, a pool table, a plasma screen TV, leather furniture, and “Penn State Nittany Lion” pennants.

One thing overshadowed everything else: a big heavy door set in one wall and controlled via an electronic access pad.

A bout of lightheadedness came over him, the price of visiting the third gift. He steadied his mind by listing the projects he wanted to tackle: a solar power grid, more security cameras around the estate, add stabilizer to every stockpile of gasoline he could find in the county before the petroleum degenerated and—just as the lightheadedness faded it returned, not caused by the third gift this time but by the volume of projects awaiting his attention.

So much to do and he had wasted nearly a week spending too much time comforting Sheila. Some days she did nothing other than cry. Other days she stared out the front window watching for approaching horrors until deteriorating into hysterical paranoia.

Trevor wondered if he picked the wrong day last week to extend his patrol route. More worthy survivors must be out there, somewhere, and today he intended to find them.

As the calendar inched toward the end of September, it also inched toward winter. He needed to move aggressively to find survivors before the weather turned. The right people with strong backs could help finish those projects before the snows came.

He sighed and tapped in the correct code. The door buzzed open leading him into a large, rectangular room filled with racks and shelves and cupboards and cabinets full of assault rifles, pistols, shot guns, sniper rifles, collapsible batons, knives of all conceivable types, stun guns, ballistic armor, helmets, and crates of ammunition.

A closet stored a variety of BDUs in a multitude of sizes. A row of drawers held rigs and assault vests and garrison bags and all the other toys that made a survivalist’s life so neat-o.

Trevor, already dressed in gray pants and a black T-shirt, strapped on a thigh rig as well as a utility belt and grabbed a black cap. The day threatened rain, so he added a lightweight army camouflage jacket.

From his gun collection, he chose his preferred weapon: a Colt M4. Trevor’s version sported a scope for distance and a laser-targeting beam perfect for striking those hard-to-hit weak spots on Earth’s visitors.

He added a nine-millimeter side arm, a collapsible baton, and a combat knife to make ready for an afternoon drive.

*

Trevor chose the custom-built motor home parked behind the six-car garage. The woodland camouflage paint served notice this vehicle had not rolled off the traditional Winnebago assembly line.

Inside, only the rear bedroom and the bathroom remained unchanged. Modifications had gutted the interior equipping it with gun cabinets, a first aid bunk, wall-mounted map holders, and a docking station for the lap top computer Trevor used to compile a “Hostiles Database.”

After starting the engine, Stone hopped from the cabin and walked toward the main house with Tyr at his side. The dog’s tail wagged in anticipation of the day’s work despite an annoying light drizzle falling from fast moving gray clouds.

“I want two patrols plus you and Odin.”

As he spoke, Trevor visualized what he wanted: two patrols of three K9s each, and his two Norwegian Elkhounds.

Tyr bolted off to muster the force. Trevor went in the house and found Sheila pacing in the living room.

“C’mon, we’re going out today.”

Sheila not only shook her head, but her whole body quivered.

“I don’t want to.”

He tried to show compassion—whatever that was—but his hard exhale and stiff lip belied his consternation.

“You can’t stay in here forever. We have to go out there. There are people out there.”

“No, no they’re all dead. Everyone is dead. We have to stay here,” an annoying pleading crept into her voice.

“Sheila, what if I had thought like that last week? Right now, there have to be more people out there, people who are alive today but won’t be alive tomorrow. If I can find them, and bring them here, then things will get easier for us. It’s what we have to do. We owe them.”

She shook her head again. Violently.

“I know you’re afraid—”

“No you don’t! You don’t know!” Tears glinted in her eyes. “You never get afraid! Nothing scares you! You talk about all this like it’s a big game. Devilbats and Mutants and Deadheads. But you haven’t been chased by them and seen your friends killed by them!”

The vision of his parents’ bodies—what he had first thought to be shaggy rugs—blasted to mind.

“Shut up!” He commanded, raising his voice to her for the first time.

She stopped talking.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

“Okay then, you can stay here. I have to go.”

“No…please don’t go!”

“I have to go. If all you want to do is stay inside and you don’t care about anyone out there, then fine.”

Her mouth opened then shut.

He called, “Ajax!”

Scrambling, obedient paws hurried along the first floor hallway. Ajax, a stout black Doberman charged with security inside the mansion, bolted into the living room flanked by two more Pinchers.

Trevor commanded, “Protect Sheila.”

“Don’t leave me!”

Trevor stormed out.

*

A thick cover of gray clouds hid the sun and cooled the day. Rain fell in a soft drizzle, just enough to add to the gloom.

Trevor drove to Francis Slocum State Park, a sprawling patch of roads and fields carved into a wooded basin dominated by a large pond that had once been perfect for paddleboat rides. Trevor chose the Ranger station and welcome center near the park entrance as the starting point for a reconnaissance sweep.

He left two German Shepherds at the motor home. The balance traveled with him on foot.

First, they surveyed a bedroom community across the road from the park entrance. The dogs immediately sniffed a pair of hostiles wandering the streets—a giant rat and something vaguely humanoid with two heads—both of which he easily dispatched with his M4.

Even though the K9s caught no human scent, he conducted a house-to-house search. He found nothing—no trace—in most homes: either the families had evacuated or scavengers had made off with any remains. Nonetheless, he did find one slaughtered family.

When Trevor first began his quest for survivors, he knew he would find many bodies. That is why he carried a jar of olfactory blocking cream.

He also knew he would find dead children, too. It made sense. Single persons held a survival advantage; they could run without consideration. But how does a mother leave a child behind? How does a family with kids move fast?

Seeing the family—including three young children—did not affect him in any particular manner. No shakes or convulsions; he did not vomit or cry an extra tear. None of it. He did not react at all and that made him wonder if perhaps his mission to slay the monsters meant he was becoming one himself.

Sounds of commotion from the park interrupted his search. He led his patrol of dog-soldiers through a wooded grove and stopped at the ridge of a short but steep hill. From that position, he oversaw a secluded parking lot and beheld a sight he had seen more often in recent weeks: monsters fighting monsters.

In the space below, six of the big-mouthed hoverbike-riding Mutants squared off against two fifteen-foot tall creatures resembling a combination of a walking-stick insect and a bald humanoid.

The Mutants wielded swords, daggers, and clubs, reserving their loud flintlocks for a few choice shots. The Stick-Ogres, as Trevor nicknamed them, swung impromptu clubs made of toppled birch trees.

He observed the battle with the eye of a researcher. He had already classified the Mutants as pack animals and labeled them as ‘semi-intelligent.’ As for the Stick-Ogres, he had never seen more than one of them at a time. His Hostiles Database categorized them as ‘solitary herbivores’ with animal intelligence. Perhaps he needed to make a revision.

More important, Trevor did not know why the two groups fought but it confirmed what he suspected for some time: the destruction of civilization was not the work of one well-organized homogeneous group. Earth’s Armageddon did not resemble Hollywood’s visions in Invasion of the Body Snatchers or Independence Day.

He had personally documented a dozen types of individual predators and twice that number of prey animals that gorged on trees, plants, and Earthly insects. From pack hunters to docile herds to solitary creatures, Trevor’s Hostile Database tracked a variety of newcomers of varying intelligence, habits, and tendencies.

Furthermore, he knew he had yet to see it all. Television and radio reports during those first weeks clearly identified a number of highly organized alien forces. However, those armies did not have the numbers or resources to take the entire planet themselves. At least not initially.

Then again, the television and radio stations flickered off one by one in June and July. By the second week of August, the only station he received on his high-powered antennas came from Lehigh University college radio overrun by summer-session dorm students.

The frat boys and sorority girls had a high old time for quite a while. Trevor had been impressed at how well they could convey the gist of things from audio only. He had especially enjoyed the “Samantha and Randy” show as well as the “Samantha and JoJo” show and the “Samantha and Andrew” show. The next logical step, the “Samantha, Randy, JoJo, and Andrew” show, had been promised but the broadcasts ceased. Apparently the fun and games—most likely the beer, too—ran out.

In any case, the Stick-Ogres and the Mutants pummeled each other amidst a steady drizzle. A swing of a massive club sent a Mutant crumbling to the pavement. A shot from a flintlock blasted away a chunk of gray shell from a Stick-Ogre’s leg, the accompanying howl of pain echoed over the treetops.

Despite his fascination with the fight, he chose a stealthy withdrawal. After quietly moving his patrol away from the ridge, Trevor drove the RV out of the park and further down the road. He stopped again, this time across from a massive hillside graveyard. At that point, he consulted his maps and realized a familiar place waited a short distance away.

Why had he not checked there yet?

In truth, he felt afraid of what he might find.

Having berated Sheila for cowardliness, could he be cowardly now?

No.

Trevor left two sentries at the motor home, then aligned the other six K9s in marching formation and tramped off through the brush toward a familiar back road. Toward the home of Jon and Lori Brewer.

*

Trevor sent one patrol to scout the tall grass of the back yard while he approached the front with Tyr, Odin, and Seth—a Shepherd named for the Egyptian god of war.

Jon’s Explorer sat in the driveway and he heard Lori’s wind chimes clanging softly in the wet breeze.

Trevor knelt behind the Explorer and dispatched Tyr to the stoop. The dog pushed his nose against the door, sniffed vigorously, and then returned to his master communicating the scent of two or three people inside.

Before Trevor did anything more, the front door burst open. Jon Brewer stormed onto the stoop dressed in work jeans and a plaid shirt. Without any consideration, he raised an army-issued M-16 and practiced his policy of preemption. Three loud slaps smacked the air and bullets riddled the Explorer.

Stone yelled, “Friendly!”

“Bull shit!” Brewer fired another volley.

Again, the shots missed but Jon knew how to handle a weapon. He would find his mark, sooner rather than later.

“Jon! It’s me, Trevor!”

“I don’t know any Trevors!”

The tires on the Explorer exploded flat.

Trevor realized the problem.

“Jon, it’s me! Richard Stone! Dick Stone!”

The gunfire stopped. The rain went tap-tap-tap on the hood of the Explorer.

Lori Brewer’s voice called from inside the home, “Rich? Rich is that you?”

Trevor rested his rifle on the soggy ground and held his empty hands above the hood of the Explorer.

“It’s me,” he stood, blinking as drips of rain splashed on his face.

“Jesus Christ, Dick, why didn’t you say something?”

*

“We’re in good shape,” Jon Brewer proclaimed as the three sat in his dark living room.

Trevor’s nose found an odor hinting of sewage issues. Just a hint.

Jon spoke confidently of their situation, ignoring the glare from his wife as he droned on.

“I’ve got another case of MREs, and our well is working good. I’ve got two more clips for my rifle and plenty of shells for the .357.” He waved a hand in the air as if dismissing Armageddon as a mild inconvenience. “We can hold out indefinitely. Where are you staying?”

Trevor licked his lips.

“I found a little place at Harveys Lake. Kind of cozy. You might like it. Why don’t you come with me and check it out?”

Trevor knew—he knew—Jon would hear none of it.

“Dick, maybe you should just stay here.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t the two of you come back and help me load up my junk and bring it here. I have some odds and ends that might be useful.”

Lori jumped before her husband could decline the suggestion.

“That sounds great.”

Jon shrugged, “Whatever you say, Dick.”

*

“Wow,” Jon glanced around the cabin. “Nice RV. Where’d you get it?”

“I found it,” Trevor admitted.

They bounced and swayed on the country roads. Rain still splashed against the windshield, but the drizzle slowed.

“What about these dogs, Rich?” Lori asked as the canines laid quietly to the rear.

Lori understood what her husband had yet to comprehend. Oh, she did not know the whole story but she understood that the Richard Stone behind the wheel of the motor home differed from the Richard Stone who, in the old days, would acquiesce to her husband’s aggressive demeanor. She knew the old Richard probably would not have survived the Apocalypse.

Something had changed; a paradigm shift. Her husband simply did not see it yet.

Trevor answered, “Oh, there were three big kennels within a couple miles of this place I’m staying at. They all came from those kennels.”

The Winnebago eased around the Harveys Lake perimeter road.

Stone asked a question of his own, “So you say your unit got over run?”

Jon grew as solemn as Jon ever gets.

“Yeah. We were hit by, like, a horde of some weird looking things.”

Trevor watched the road but he listened carefully.

“Man, I held my ground as long as I could,” a nervous laugh. “But it was pretty bad. The command center got destroyed, ammunition ran low; I must have killed a dozen of the things.”

“I see.”

“So, anyway, I managed to get free. I think everyone else was dead. I grabbed a couple crates of supplies from the depot and threw them in the Explorer.”

“Must’ve been quite a trip back,” Trevor said.

“Yep. Saw all sorts of weird shit. Nothing I couldn’t handle, though.”

Lori made a fake-choking noise and said, “I’m sick of MREs. I didn’t join the army, you know?”

Jon changed the subject.

“So Dick, I got some ideas on things we need to be doing. You stick with me and I’ll get us through this okay.”

“That’s my hero,” Lori chimed in light heartily even as she sensed the brick wall her husband raced toward.

Lori had known Richard ‘Dick’ Stone nearly her entire life. The man in the driver’s seat of the RV resembled Dick Stone and sounded like Dick Stone. Yet she knew—instinctively knew—he had become something more.

At the same time, she loved her husband dearly, no matter how often he annoyed her. His dominating personality helped keep her headstrong ways in check. In a sense, they were the only two people in the world who could put up with the other.

Sometimes they fought and screamed and she even threw a dish at him once. However, he had never hit her or pushed her around, despite how high he towered above her. She had a sharp enough wit to put him in his place and he was smart enough to keep her wit from hurting his ego.

At the same time, if not for him she would have told off one too many bosses or loan agents or friends over the years. He could make her tone it down a notch…sometimes.

The RV rounded a bend, drove along the iron fence, and swung up the driveway after the gate rolled open.

Lori gasped, “Geez, some place.”

Jon said nothing.

The motor home parked next to the mansion. Trevor led the group out, including the K9s. Lori heard Richard tell one of the Elkhounds, “Assembly” before it galloped away.

“Wow, um,” Jon stuttered as his eyes darted from sight to sight including the blond girl on the porch peering at the new arrivals from behind a thick pillar.

Trevor said, “I have a few things to pack up to take over to your place: a couple of Humvees, some dirt bikes, several thousand gallons of fuel, an armory, tons of fresh, frozen, and preserved food; oh, and we might want to take the helipad in case we come across any choppers.”

Lori smiled. No, she smirked at her friend.

Dozens of K9s assembled on the lawn in rows by breed. Dozens.

Trevor grew deadly serious.

“Your army is gone.”

Jon, his jaw unhinged, gaped at the dogs organized as smartly as U.S. Marines at a Memorial Day parade.

“This is my army.”

Trevor pointed at the Rotties.

“Heavy infantry.”

He waved a hand toward the Elkhounds.

“Reconnaissance.”

Then toward the Dobermans.

“Military police.”

“I-I…” Jon stammered. “Wow.”

“This is how it is. We were friends but that was the past. Things have changed. A lot. More than you realize. I have a job to do. You can be a part of that. I want you to be a part of that. I need people like you. But there are two things I’m going to ask of you.”

Lori spoke because Jon could not manage a coherent word.

“What two things?”

“First, I need to know you’ll follow me. That’s not something you’re used to. That’s not how things used to be with us. But that’s how they have to be now. I need to know that you’ll follow me without question, without debate. This is my world now. I’m in charge.”

“And the second thing?”

“Never call me ‘Dick’ again.”

The South Side Suicide Club

A week into Jon and Lori’s move to the estate, Sheila felt the mansion had grown too crowded and retreated to her room. Each day she sat on her bed with knees curled to her chin, crying to the point that tears seemed scarred into her cheeks.

She held fond memories of the “good old days”, those first three days after her rescue. Since then, she endured the sting of rejection and paranoia that Trevor would kick her out.

At first, Lori invited Sheila to work in the garden, organize supplies, play cards, or some other outreach program of the day. Eventually, Lori stopped asking. Sheila did not mind. If she stayed quiet and out of sight, maybe they would forget about her.

The lights in Sheila’s room flickered. She tensed. Those flickers came and went but she feared that one day the lights might go dark permanently. She kept them on all the time, even as sunlight filled her room and despite Trevor’s warning to conserve power. Those lights meant a lot to her; a fantasy of civilization.

The lights stopped flickering and remained on. Sheila calmed.

She pried her hands from her knees, opened the top drawer of the side table, and pulled out a notebook and pencil. Sheila sniffled, wiped away another threatening teardrop, and then took aim with the pencil.

*

“What do you see?” Jon asked.

Trevor held binoculars to his eyes.

“I see a dead city.”

The two stood atop a mountain on the southwestern edge of the Wyoming Valley, a panoramic view before them.

The Susquehanna split the valley in two. Wilkes-Barre lay to the east of the river where several tall, 1930’s vintage bank buildings and the classic but long-deteriorating Hotel Sterling dominated the downtown skyline. Those older structures shared the space around ‘Public Square’ with 1970’s era buildings built with a massive influx of tax dollars following the disastrous ‘72 flood. Neighborhoods sprouted to the south and north of downtown and reached from the riverbank to the valley’s eastern mountain wall.

Further away, the gargantuan Veteran’s Hospital and the Wyoming Valley Mall dominated the terraced mountainside in the northeastern quadrant of the basin. Not far from those two landmarks sat shopping centers and restaurants surrounding a new arena, itself constructed next to an Interstate 81 on-ramp.

On the near side of the Susquehanna, Route 11 paralleled the western bank of the river, running through suburbs and past strip malls. Similar to the homes on the eastern banks, the homes on the “West Side” included gothic Victorian residences that had survived the floodwaters mixed among Nixon-era ranches and duplexes built where those waters had swept away less fortunate houses.

More neighborhoods—comprised mainly of smaller homes and double-blocks—lived on the mountainsides book ending the valley.

Several bridges spanned the river, linking east to west. These included the Cross Valley Expressway to the north, two smaller bridges near downtown, a third span connecting the southern neighborhoods, and another expressway even farther to the south.

Despite all he had seen in the last few months, Jon found it hard to believe that the serene picture under that cloudless blue sky hid unspeakable monsters, decaying bodies, and other assorted nightmares. Nevertheless, he knew they were there.

For the first few days, Jon had followed Trevor because his mind was shell-shocked by the estate, the dogs, the equipment, the guns, and the horded food. He simply could not wrap his mind around the situation. Of course, his questions did not stop at the stockpiled supplies.

“Where did you learn to shoot?”

“How can you can break down and clean a rifle as fast as me?”

“How do you get those dogs—I mean K9s—to do what you want?”

Trevor’s answer: “I picked it up.”

Nevertheless, Jon played his role…thus far.

That role started with easy patrols. Jon suspected those patrols aimed to test his willingness to take orders.

Four days after the Brewers came to the estate, Trevor took Jon to the scattered collection of upscale housing developments and small farms known as Shavertown. The K9s had tracked the scent of a Devilbat to a supermarket there.

Trevor led them into the dark market with so little fear that it served as a challenge to Jon. Indeed, he dared not retreat; not when Trevor actually stepped forward to attack in the face of the creature’s flapping, fibrous wings and hissing, fanged mouth.

Jon had watched in fascination. Could that really be Richard Stone?

No. His name is Trevor.

When the smoke from their firing cleared, the Devilbat lay dead, Trevor had shown his mettle, and Mr. Brewer understood how much the world had changed.

Back atop the mountain, Jon asked, “You said someday you want to clear the city? You want to go in there and root everything out?”

“You still don’t get this, do you? You need to understand—”

A noise interrupted the conversation: a vibration chopping the air over the valley.

“There,” Jon pointed to an object flying south to north: a blue and white helicopter with ‘POLICE’ stenciled on the side. The chopper traced the Susquehanna River with its engine emitting a wounded chug.

The helo flew above the residential neighborhoods of south Wilkes-Barre on the east side of the river but the more the engine chugged, the more altitude it lost.

“They’re going to crash,” Jon said.

“Yes, and we’re going to rescue them.”

To Jon, that sounded suicidal. It meant the two of them with a small compliment of K9s fighting their way into a city infested with hostiles.

The chopper fell from view behind trees and rooftops. The sound of a heavy metallic thud reached the observers’ ears. No fireball or explosion.

“Let’s go,” Trevor said.

Jon hesitated.

“Jon, this is what it’s all about. What’s it going to be?”

Jon swallowed hard, nodded, and followed.

*

Stone guided the motor home around hairpin turns as they descended the twisty, paved road of “Plymouth Mountain.” Overworked brakes filled the cabin with a dusty, burning smell and the entire vehicle threatened to rollover with each hard bend. Isolated homes and trailers populated the mountainside but they saw no living beings, human or otherwise.

During the drive, Jon transmitted offers of help via the CB radio on multiple frequencies but received no reply.

After half-an-hour, they reached the bottom of the mountain and the borough of Plymouth.

Tiny shops, corner bars, and pizzerias lined the steep side streets of the tiny town. Some of those streets angled up the mountain, others down toward the Susquehanna. Route 11, the major road on that side of the river, cut directly through Plymouth. Trevor and Jon followed that route north until they came to a river crossing. That is when they saw their first hostile.

It emerged from beneath an ugly concrete bridge built recently by PennDot to replace an aging stone and metal span. The creature stood nearly nine feet on two thick legs with wiry black and silver hair and four muscular arms. It swung a lizard’s tail and gnashed jaws akin to a crocodile’s snout.

Jon said, in a surprisingly calm voice, “There’s a troll living under the bridge.”

It climbed the embankment and intercepted the vehicle. Trevor slammed the brakes and the RV skidded to a halt, facing the creature at twenty yards. The Troll stood and glared as if savoring a meal to come. Its jaws hung open in what might have been a smile of sorts.

That changed.

Suddenly its eyes widened and its four arms waved in self-defense. Something huge swooped from the sky, seized the Troll in massive talons, and flew off.

Trevor and Jon leaned forward and watched a big black silhouette with dual sets of wings similar to a dragonfly soar away to the north with the silver and black haired monster struggling in its grasp.

The two men glanced at one another but could not think of anything to say.

Stone pressed the accelerator and they crossed the Susquehanna into the southwestern neighborhoods of Wilkes-Barre. The road became “Carey Avenue,” a passage meandering through those neighborhoods toward the center of town. Based on what the men had witnessed from the mountaintop, they calculated the chopper crashed somewhere near Meyers High School, about a mile from the bridge.

Trevor soon realized he had been wrong about one thing: Wilkes-Barre was no ‘dead city.’ It teemed with life.

A mob of Ghouls identical to the things Trevor had seen attack the television station during the initial onslaught, gathered in a used car lot fighting over scraps. They were too busy pushing and clawing one another to notice the RV.

The rescuers continued onward underneath a railroad bridge and through a major intersection where they saw an abandoned alien plane crashed into the front of a half-burned Burger King. About the size of a fighter jet, it sported two sharp-looking scimitar wings.

Then they saw another ship. Or, at least, what they thought must be a ship because it flew high above the city. Longer and wider than a passenger jet, its shape defied the laws of aerodynamics. Indeed, it resembled more a blob than a craft, coated in a sickly green color with the texture of skin.

The ship—or creature—disappeared over the southern horizon.

As they drove, all manner of animals scurried about, most running from the motor home as if it might be a predator. Trevor had already noted the variety of invading creatures, many of which were docile and timid. Among those lived carrion eaters who, in a very practical sense, aided his cause.

Nonetheless, many human bodies remained.

No, that was not right.

Parts of human bodies: the indigestible chunks predators did not want or the carrion eaters could not consume. Most of those remains had decomposed into gory piles, some more recognizable such as the messy heap on a curb wearing a Phillies jersey, the skeletal frame on a smashed Honda motorcycle, and a filleted body laying near a precious booty of cigarette cartons outside a convenience store.

Many of the houses in south Wilkes-Barre wore unusual fronts such as big bay windows or wide double doors for the reason that before QuikMarts and chain drugstores many had been small family businesses. Jon grew up in Wilkes-Barre during the tail end of those days. He had played little league for “Macris” Pharmacy against the kids from “Sarafini’s Groceries” and “The Spinning Wheel” restaurant. Shopping malls and powerful brand names had been the monsters visited upon those entrepreneurs.

A sharp breeze blew a hurricane of litter across the road. Jon watched the papers flutter and said, “We’re not going to find them.”

“Relax,” Trevor sounded calm but he felt a growing sense of claustrophobia. Clusters of houses, churches, and funeral homes crowded the street on both sides. So few escape routes, so few avenues of retreat, but plenty of ambush points.

A window curtain fluttered.

A trash can fell over and rolled.

Out the corner of his eye, Trevor saw a shadow dart between homes.

Something hanging on tree in a corner park howled a bizarre cooing noise…their noses caught a strange, musty scent that warned of marked territory…a yellow Wilkes-Barre Area school bus sat in two pieces on a side street, its center stretch completely gone as if neatly removed by a surgeon’s scalpel.

The RV rolled to a stop in front of E.L. Meyers High School, “Home of the Mohawks!” A black cat rested in the shadow of a massive pillar at the front of the long stone building. A shaded residential neighborhood surrounded the school.

“Why are you stopping?”

“We’re not going to find them just driving around, c’mon,” Trevor killed the engine and both men exited the vehicle, carbines ready.

“Perimeter,” the Master commanded and ten K9s spread around the motor home.

Across the street from the high school sat a house in the midst of major porch roof repair when the apocalypse had come, leaving only exposed crossbeams where there should have been wood and shingles.

Trevor and Jon, in a state of curious shock, approached that porch.

Four bodies dangled there—two men and two women—hanging from ropes secured to those exposed cross beams with roughshod nooses around necks. Jon stepped onto the porch to examine the rotting corpses; the bodies long ago picked clean. Probably by birds.

Probably.

Both men wore tuxedos. One woman dressed in a wedding gown, the other a fancy but dated prom dress. A piece of cardboard taped to the banister offered an explanation of sorts:

“Here hangs the South Side Suicide Club,

We couldn’t take it no more.

So we dressed in our best, stood straight and abreast,

And kicked away stools numberin’ four.”

“Wow, now this is so fu—”

“Shh,” Trevor cut Jon off.

From the porch, the men viewed Carey Avenue and two side streets. Thick curbside trees shaded one of those side streets as it headed in an easterly direction. An autumn wind gust blew along that shady street directly toward them. Tree limbs softly waved; clusters of leaves came loose and surfed the air. Several sounds carried on that wind.

First, a subtle, eerie howl hidden in the breeze. Second, a single sharp report.

Stone and Brewer exchanged glances.

Gunfire?

Trevor estimated forty-five minutes elapsed since the crash. A gunshot meant—maybe it meant—any survivors were still survivors and not leftovers.

“Trev,” Jon pointed toward a blue sign with a big white ‘H’. “Mercy hospital. Probably a landing pad on the roof. That’d be something a pilot would aim for.”

Trevor whistled for his troops. The K9s piled into the RV.

Stone started the vehicle again and they drove forward on that shady street.

The tall, wide hospital dominated the surrounding blocks with its red brick and stucco frame. The main entrance waited a right turn away on a smaller street. Trevor drove to that turn, cranked the wheel, and suddenly slammed on the brakes.

Jon jumped.

“What? What?”

Trevor laughed and shook his head.

“Sorry. Just we’re going the wrong way down a one-way street. Old habits, you know?”

Jon spotted the black arrow pointing the other direction and shared Trevor’s laugh.

“Shit yeah, I know.”

On one side of the street stood the hospital, on the other a four-level parking garage. An overturned ambulance lay on the curb.

The RV pulled behind the ambulance. The men and the K9s jumped out and Trevor led them toward the main entrance. One of the German Shepherds emitted a sharp yap and stared at the parking garage across the street. Hanging over the railing of the garage roof drooped the bent rear rotor blades of a helicopter…

…The stairwell door swung open. Trevor, Jon and several K9s walked out into the sun where the zing of bullets greeted them. They hunkered behind a cluster of parked cars.

Jon growled, “They shot at us!”

“No wonder, they’ve probably been getting rushed by every monster on the south side.”

By the looks of things, Trevor had a point. The roof served as final resting place for six Ghouls, three giant jellyfish, as well as a lion-thing with an armor-plated head.

Two men leaned against the toppled blue and white helicopter that had smashed into an ancient AMC Matador. They wore black S.W.A.T. BDUs and brandished pistols although empty Mp5s lay near. The metallic smell of expended shells floated over the rooftop battlefield.

Trevor yelled, “We saw your chopper go down! We’re here to help!”

No answer.

“I’m coming out. I’m putting my gun down.”

Trevor held his empty hands high. Jon fidgeted as if to protest, but held his tongue.

With his palms clearly visible above his head, Trevor stood and walked slowly toward the two men near the helicopter.

The first man appeared to be fifty-something. He watched Trevor’s advance through narrow eyes on a thin face. His mustache, like the rest of the hair on his head, had long ago started the change from black to gray. That man’s left leg bled profusely.

The second, a big, round guy with prematurely thinning hair and a slim mustache, stood.

“Watch whatya doin’. Go real slow-like.”

His complexion matched his accent: a Philadelphia Italian who spoke as much with his hands as his mouth.

Trevor said, “Looks like your friend needs first aid.”

The older man swallowed hard and said to his companion, “Have them go looking for Nina and Scott.”

“Shep,” the Italian answered, “we gotta worry ‘bout you right nows.”

“Can I put my hands down?”

The older man—Shep—spoke to Trevor, “Sorry ‘bout that. Can’t be too careful.”

Trevor waved to Jon and the K9s. The two police officers eyed the dogs with suspicion.

“It’s okay, they’re with me.” Trevor’s assurances meant little to the policemen.

Stone knelt in front of the wounded man.

“How bad is that leg?”

“It’s a fair-size cut. Shoulder hurts, too, but if I don’t stop the bleeding…”

“Understood. We have some medical supplies in our RV. We can get it under control. But we need to get moving, it’s dangerous here.”

“If we coulda moved him we wouldn’t ‘a been sittin’ here like ducks.”

Trevor explained, “I can’t bring the motor home up here; there’s not enough clearance. Let’s get one of these cars to take you downstairs.”

“Wait a sec,” the older man objected. “There are two more with us. They made a lot of noise and moved off to draw away a bunch of ugly things. I can’t leave them behind.”

Jon said, “We didn’t see anyone else. How long they been gone?”

“Been a while,” the Italian answered, “Half-an-hour or so.”

Jon stated the obvious: “They might not be coming back.”

The older man said, “Oh no, Nina will be back. She’s gotten out of tougher scrapes then-”

A shot of pain deteriorated his words into a grunt.

Trevor urged, “We’ll look for your friends, but first we have to stop that bleeding.”

The two officers shared a glance and—reluctantly—nodded in agreement.

“By the way, my name is Trevor. Trevor Stone. This is Jon Brewer.”

“Thanks for stoppin’ by, Trevor Stone. I’m Jerry Shepherd. This is Sal Corso. Straight from—ouch—Philadelphia.”

Sal sneered, “With friggin’ love.”

Trevor smashed the window on an old Nissan, eased Shepherd into the rear seat, and slipped the manual shifter out of gear. Sal and Jon pushed the car to the exit ramp and gravity did the rest. The lack of power assist for the steering caused some difficulty as Trevor struggled to keep the wheel from locking. Nonetheless, he maneuvered through the garage and onto the street. Sal, Jon, and the K9s followed on foot.

They helped Shepherd to a bunk inside the RV where Trevor displayed the first-aid expertise of an army medic as he stopped the bleeding then sanitized and bandaged the wound.

The leg needed stitching but three creatures the size of buses approached. At first glance, they resembled an ant/spider hybrid: eight furry legs, six coal-black eyes on an insect’s head, and an abdomen segmented into three parts. One walked along on the pavement pausing to inspect parked cars; the other two crawled sideways on homes peeking in windows.

Trevor retraced Carey Avenue and parked on a grassy stretch near the riverbank. While K9s stood sentry outside, the four men discussed the situation.

After describing the estate, Trevor invited the officers to stay at the mansion.

“That sounds great,” Shep answered. “But I’m not going anywhere without Nina and Scott.”

“You’re in no position to go looking for them,” Jon said.

“I can rest here.”

Trevor noted that when Shepherd spoke of this Nina woman his eyes sharpened, revealing something greater than simple concern for a fellow human being, but not the desperate longing a man would show for a lover.

Fatherly concern?

“Who is this Nina?” asked Trevor.

“And there’s another guy,” Jon said. “Scott is his name?”

Sal joked, “Yeah, but Nina’s as likely to kill him as anythin’ out there.”

Trevor told them, “There’s a good chance she’s already dead.”

“No.” Shepherd insisted. “You’re not hearing me, son. Nina will survive until she runs out of ammo or Scott does something stupid. She’s alive; I know it. We have to find her.”

Trevor said, “Let’s get you back to the estate, stitch you up, then come back later.”

Shepherd refused. “That won’t do. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours.”

Jon suggested; pleaded, “Trev, I’ll handle this. Steal a car and take him back. Me and Sal here can go with the dogs and keep searching.”

He stared at Jon and wondered; he wondered what Jon felt he needed to prove.

“I can live with that,” Shepherd said. “For now.”

Trevor worried Shep’s obsession with finding this Nina would cost lives. He understood survival came down to an equation: save people without losing ones already saved. Adding Shep and Sal to the growing estate would be a net win; losing one or both of them—and possibly Jon and several K9s—in a hopeless search did not serve the interest of survival, no matter how noble.

Yet he agreed because it did not seem he had any choice.

“Okay. I’ll take Shepherd back. You and Sal start searching. Let the K9s sniff her and this Scott guy out. We rendezvous here at 7.”

*

After hot-wiring a Grand Cherokee, Trevor drove Shep through Plymouth, over the mountain, and to Harveys Lake, avoiding a Devilbat and a slithering Jellyfish along the way.

The estate and the K9s impressed Shepherd as much as Trevor hoped. He introduced the policeman to Lori (who berated Trevor for leaving Jon behind) and Sheila (who whispered hello before running to her room).

With Lori’s help, Trevor properly stitched the wounded leg and wrapped the injury in a more secure bandage, reaching the extent of his medical knowledge. At that point, Captain Jerry Shepherd demanded to return to the search. Trevor stalled as long as possible but that became difficult with Lori glaring at him.

For the return trip, they eschewed the Grand Cherokee in favor of a Humvee. On their way into the city, they dodged the same Devilbat, shot dead a large other-wordily snake, rammed through a trio of Ghouls, and succeeded in meeting Jon and Sal at seven o’clock.

Jon informed Trevor that two German Shepherds died during the search. Trevor knew many K9s would be lost in the weeks, months, and years ahead. Still, two of them dying while not under his command did not sit well with Trevor.

They retrieved a piece of Nina’s clothing from the helicopter and gave the K9s a good whiff, then the hunt continued starting with a floor-by-floor search of the hospital that was cut short when a red blob enveloped another K9.

As evening turned to night, they resorted to a bullhorn to call her name, attracting a swarm of cat-sized beetles with razor-sharp mandibles. Scratch another dog.

Trevor insisted they withdraw and succeeded only by convincing Shep that if this girl were as good a soldier as he claimed, she would find shelter for the night.

The next morning—the first day of October—they left before dawn with reloaded weapons, twice as many K9s, and three different vehicles: the RV and two Humvees.

They swept through residential neighborhoods, an elementary school, and several churches. Four more dogs died by late afternoon and Sal suffered a mild concussion when the tentacles of an eight-foot tall carnivorous flower knocked a garage wall on his head.

Round after round of munitions burned away in firefights: First, an elephant-sized beetle beneath the bleachers at a high school football stadium. Second, a mob of Ghouls rousted from a restaurant. Third, small balls of slimy feelers that, while preferring carrion, decided to try a live meal when Jon stumbled upon them in the dining room of a retirement home.

None of that deterred Jerry Shepherd, but as night fell on the second day Trevor felt their luck running out. Certainly, this super-soldier—this Nina Forest—had been something’s dinner.

On the morning of the third day, Trevor decided if they did not find anyone by nightfall, the search would end; at least for him and Jon. Besides, the weather offered a bad harbinger: a cold breeze turned a light rain into icy daggers; a reminder that October had arrived. Some leaves already erupted in fiery colors, meaning the first snow of the season could not be far behind.

Around mid-day, Shepherd took shrapnel from a Mutant’s flintlock in his shin. Although only a minor injury, the blow demanded a run to the estate for more stitches. Trevor took Shepherd to the compound and left Jon and Sal with several K9s.

Late that afternoon, the Norwegian Elkhound named Odin caught a scent. The animal barked and yapped until grabbing their attention, then led Jon and Sal through an old scrap yard to an abandoned warehouse where the roof had partially collapsed.

A hand stretched out from beneath a pile of sheet metal and wooden beams.

“It’s her,” Sal said as he checked for a pulse. “It’s Nina, and she’s alive.”

Nina Forest

Moments before sunset, Trevor hurried in the front door of the mansion having just returned from a fuel run to William and Eva Rheimmer’s farm.

During the trip home, he received a radio transmission from Jon Brewer announcing the successful conclusion of the search for Nina Forest. Somehow, she had survived in that infested city for three days. The other officer, Scott, remained unaccounted for.

“She’s unconscious,” Jon said as he met Trevor inside the front door.

Stone noticed Jon beaming. And why not? He had searched unfriendly territory and not only survived but also completed his mission.

Originally, Trevor anticipated problems with Jon, and sought to earn that man’s respect. Now Trevor wondered, perhaps it might be Jon seeking respect. Or something else.

Lori Brewer came along carrying a first aid kit and added her voice to the discussion.

“There’s some dried blood on her noggin’, a few cuts and scrapes, but from what I can tell she’s in good shape.”

“But unconscious?”

“That’s how we found her,” Jon said. “She was under a collapsed roof at the scrap metal yard a quarter mile from the crash.”

“A quarter mile? And it took this long to find her?”

Jon’s beaming faded as Trevor’s words inflicted a wound.

Stone immediately mitigated, “Still, good job and all. I can’t believe you found her.”

Captain Jerry Shepherd and Sal Corso emerged from the first-floor guestroom and the five people shuffled into the living room. A chill seeped in from the early-Autumn evening. Jon piled kindling in the large fireplace and Trevor pulled the tall red drapes closed to keep light from escaping.

Shepherd sat in a tobacco-colored wing chair and said, “I told you she’d make it.”

“But she’s unconscious, right?” Trevor spoke as if the woman’s unconscious state made her survival less remarkable.

Lori, noticing the tone in his voice, countered, “Other than that, she’s fine.”

“One tough chick,” Sal used the word chick with lots of respect.

“I see,” Trevor absently inspected a collection of porcelain carousel horses displayed in a corner curio cabinet. “Let’s hope she wakes up soon. Anyway, I’m not sending any more people in town for now.”

A glare from Shepherd reminded Trevor that the police officers had not yet conceded to take orders from him.

“When Nina wakes up she’ll tell us what happened to Scott. Seems to me we’ll just have to go from there.”

The kindling crackled as the fire started. Jon stoked the blaze with more logs. Heat billowed across the living room as the flames grew.

“I suppose so,” Trevor acquiesced.

He did not need to extend an invitation again. He did not need to remind Shepherd that the invitation came with conditions. He had done so a dozen times already. Each time Shepherd told him they would wait and see.

Trevor left the living room with the intention of going upstairs to change clothes. He stopped and gazed toward the first floor guestroom. Curiosity got the better of him.

She looked nothing like he expected. In fact, he almost laughed.

Nina Forest lay in bed on top of a checkered comforter. An oil lamp cast the unconscious woman in a soft glow and filled the room with a subdued smell of kerosene. She wore black BDU pants and a white top. A series of small cuts and bruises decorated her arms, the only trophies she displayed from nearly three days in Hell.

The petite, early 20s girl sleeping silently on the bed contrasted sharply with his expectations of an Amazon warrior. She had medium length blond hair with naturally curly waves yet pulled it into a tight, short ponytail clearly designed for function, not style.

She did not resemble a warrior.

More like a cheerleader, he thought.

Except not a cheerleader as Sheila had been. More like the strong and agile cheerleader charged with performing the gymnastic stuff.

His eyes drifted across her shoulders and arms, all sculptured by a kind artist’s eye: no bulging muscles, but chiseled tone with nary a hint of body fat. She matched the stereotype of the all-American girl: attractive and physically fit with small but well-proportioned breasts.

But a warrior?

Trevor chuckled quietly at the difference between expectation and reality. Having debunked the legend, he turned to leave.

The arm seized his neck. How did she move so fast?

The cheerleader held him in a headlock and it felt as if she might crush his larynx. He grabbed at her arm futilely. The wind to his lungs clamped off.

The All-American girl spoke evenly but forcefully, “Where am I? Who are you?”

Her vice grip allowed only a grunt.

He felt lightheaded. The walls spun. Blurry figures entered the room.

“Nina! Nina let him go, it’s okay!”

The grip released. He collapsed to the floor on his back gulping air. Sal Corso bent over and looked down at him.

“You okay, Chief?”

*

The fire waned. Jon Brewer placed his bottle on the mahogany coffee table and stacked more logs in the flames. Lori Brewer curled on the couch while Trevor sat in a walnut-framed easy chair massaging his bruised throat and dealing with a burgeoning headache.

Sheila Evans long ago retreated to her room while the guests from Philadelphia accepted temporary shelter in apartments above the garage. Shepherd promised a decision by morning.

Lori teased for the third time, “You got beat up by a girl.”

Trevor pinched his nose. He could not decide if credit for the headache lay with the trauma dealt to his throat or Lori’s ribbing.

Outside, the wind whistled, rattling the windows. The people inside felt secure knowing K9s watched the grounds beyond those rattling windows.

Jon drank from his beer and asked, “What’s the story with Sheila? You two goin’ rabbit?”

Lori slapped her husband on the knee.

“No,” Trevor answered.

“Where did you find her?” Lori asked.

“She was being chased by Mutants. I helped her out.”

Jon mocked, “Trevor Stone to the rescue.”

“Something like that, I guess. But…well I don’t know.”

Lori pushed, “What? What is it?”

“It’s just…I was hoping she’d have it together more. All she does is sit in her room. She’s afraid to do anything, to go anywhere.”

Lori shrugged, “I think we all are.”

“No, not like this. If she had her way we’d just sit here behind these walls and hope to God nothing ever finds us.”

Lori pushed again, “Sounds like a plan to me.”

Trevor had enough pushing.

“You don’t really mean that. Don’t play games. I’m serious. She’s useless.”

“Useless? Do you hear yourself?”

“Lori, you know what I mean.”

Jon broke in, “That’s right. People have to carry their weight. No room for lazy bones.”

She asked, “Are you sorry you saved her? Like it’d be better if she died?”

Trevor pinched his nose again.

“Forget it.”

Lori took a long drink and then set aside her beer. She leaned forward and crossed her arms on her knees. Her eyes drooped a little, then narrowed, and her head tilted in the slightest. Trevor recognized her counselor’s face.

“What happened to Ashley?”

Trevor ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.

“She disappeared into thin air. Her whole neighborhood I think. Just like Wrigley Field. Just like West Point. Nothing but clothes left.” Trevor asked Jon, “Did you ever hear any more about what they thought caused that? Still just vaporized?”

Jon’s posture on the couch stiffened and his eyes darted fast for the floor. He occupied his hands and mouth with the beer bottle.

“Go ahead, tell me. Did your cousin hear something more?”

Jon sighed and said, “Last I heard the only new info was that there was some sort of strange radiation left behind.”

“And?”

“So…so they figured it was like a neutron bomb.”

Lori did not understand. “A neutron bomb?”

Trevor said, “Designed to kill only people. A massive burst of radiation that would leave buildings and stuff in place.”

Jon figured, “Makes sense. If someone wanted this planet and just wanted us out of the way, then that’s the perfect weapon. No structural damage. Just the people…gone.”

The fire crackled and popped loudly as the flames devoured the fresh logs.

Lori consoled, “I’m sorry.”

Trevor said bluntly, “You never liked her.”

Her head cocked and she blinked. Her voice wavered with defensiveness, but she did not take well to playing defense.

“No, I—”

“Don’t lie to me. You didn’t like her. You never did.”

Lori puffed in frustration.

“I tried. I really did. I’d talk to her, I’d invite her over…she was never interested, not in any of your friends.”

“She wasn’t marrying my friends.”

“Oh no?” Lori said. “Well I got news for you. To know a person, you have to know the people they grew up with. Their family and their friends. No one was closer than you and me. She didn’t care why.”

“I didn’t know her friends well,” Trevor countered.

“That didn’t matter because Ashley was—” she stopped but not in time.

Jon placed a hand over his eyes.

Trevor lunged, “What? Ashley was what?”

Lori tried to retreat, “Never mind, nothing,”

“Answer me, Lori. Ashley was what?”

When backed into a corner, Lori Brewer came out swinging. She knew no other way.

“Okay,” her bottom lip stiffened. “She was the first girl you ever had sex with.”

Jon drank deep from his bottle. Lori broke eye contact by retrieving her own bottle of beer. She took a long drink, too.

Trevor stood.

His throat hurt and his body tired. He needed rest to be ready for tomorrow, an important day. Tomorrow the police officers would decide whether to accept his invitation, with all the strings attached.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Rich…” Lori started, stopped, and then rephrased, “Okay. Good night, Trevor.”

He started toward the door and then stopped.

“You’re wrong. I loved Ashley. It was more than…more than that.”

Lori lied in a gentle voice, “I know.”

Trevor ascended the stairs. Jon and Lori cuddled in front of the fire.

*

While unsophisticated, Trevor’s backyard shooting range served its purpose.

An old boiler filled with sand made a decent backstop. Human-shaped targets poorly cut from cardboard hung on clothesline.

He fired another round from a nine-millimeter pistol. Despite a near-perfect grip as well as a complete understanding of ballistics and shooting technique, Trevor shot good but not great. Nonetheless, before Armageddon he would have shot his foot off.

Tyr, hovering several paces behind, barked loud enough to penetrate the protective ear guards his Master wore. Stone turned to see Shepherd approaching with a slight limp, the only trace of his leg injuries.

“Hate to interrupt, but I thought it was about time we spoke.”

“Yeah, well, it’s okay. Don’t want to fire too many shots. Don’t want things knowing where to come looking for us.”

Shepherd waited as Trevor dropped spent cartridges into a small container set in the post built at the firing line. After clearing away the casings, Trevor wiped gunpowder residue from his hands with a handkerchief.

The men walked to the main house under an overcast morning sky. The temperature still held in the fifties, but the wind carried a colder note.

They entered through the rear door, crossed the large kitchen, went along the hall, and joined Corso and Jon Brewer in the living room. The charred remains of the previous night’s blaze lingered in the fireplace.

Shepherd found a chair and began the conversation.

“For us it started when we had to kill some thing inside the Constitution museum at Independence Hall. That was a couple of days before Philly went to Hell, and believe you me, Philly went to Hell real quick.”

Corso, pacing by the fireplace, added, “Momma mia, that was nothin’. They was seein’ monsters in the sewers and diavoli on the streets.”

“How’d you survive?”

“I reckon’ we got lucky with the calls we drew. We put down things that could be put down with what we were packin’. Things like what you call ‘Ghouls’ and the like. Didn’t matter though. After two weeks, the city was FUBAR. Then we were sent to guard a rescue station.”

Shepherd closed his eyes and shook his head slow as he recalled unpleasant images.

“What about your friend, what’s her name, Nina?” Trevor asked.

“Donna forte,” Sal spoke Italian with his hands waving.

Shepherd provided more useful information.

“We’re all on the same SWAT team. Nina’s also a Blackhawk pilot in the National Guard.”

Jon surveyed the room from his seat on the couch. “Where is she?”

Shepherd told a transparent lie, “She’s not feeling good.”

Trevor strolled to one of the tall, thin living room windows.

“Tell me about her.”

From the window, he saw the porch pillars and the front lawn. In the distance, the waters of the lake lapped the shoreline.

“Nina? She’s something else, never met no one like her,” Shep said. “She’s a great shot, a decent pilot, and got a head for fighting. If she were a guy, she’d probably have been in the Rangers or something along those lines. As it is, the force stuck her in the chopper half the time, but she’d rather be on the ground with the grunts.”

Trevor mused, “Just an all-American girl.”

“What’s that?” Shepherd did not hear.

Trevor ignored him. “So what about Scott? Does she remember what happened to him?”

Shepherd closed his eyes again as he shook his head ‘no’. His disposition answered Trevor’s next question before asked: there would be no more search parties.

Trevor asked, “Why can’t she remember what happened?”

Sal said, “Yo, a bump on the head can mess you up good. It’ll come back to her.”

Trevor, through the window, saw Nina appear and stroll along the driveway with an HK MP5 on her shoulder. She walked slow, almost sluggish, with her head bent down as if trying to slip by life unnoticed which, he thought, might be why she kept otherwise attractive hair pulled tight in a boring ponytail.

She knelt to pat the head of a curious Rottweiler.

Lori Brewer entered the scene from the opposite direction. She approached Nina with the aim of striking a conversation. Trevor watched but could not hear.

“You’re thinking of staying and she doesn’t like that.”

Shep eased in his chair, scratched his chin, and told the truth.

“She thinks we need to keep moving. She doesn’t think there’s anything here for us.”

“And you?”

“Like I said, Nina’s got a head for fighting. But she’s still just a kid, you hear? Seems to me she don’t always see the big picture.”

Trevor surmised, “She looks to you.”

Sal cut directly to the heart of the matter: “Shep is the only person she’ll listen to.”

Stone understood. “She’d have a tough time here; a tough time following.”

“Not just her.”

“Oh,” Trevor swung about pulling his eyes from the window.

Shepherd told him, “I’ve been in the force for twenty odd years. I led a platoon in the Army. I’ve fought for guys with medals on their chests. So you can see my point.”

“Why should you follow me?”

Jon broke in, “How about ‘cause we saved your ass?”

Trevor raised a hand to calm Brewer.

“Fair question. You’d be an idiot not to ask it.”

“Nothing personal, you understand,” Shepherd replied.

Trevor asked, “The estate, the stock piles, and the K9s aren’t enough?”

“Well, I am impressed. Lots of planning went into this. As for the thing you can do with the dogs, that’s a pretty neat trick. But to be honest, that’s likely to make me more jittery.”

“Sure,” Trevor admitted. “Not something you’d expect in the old world.”

Brewer asked, “So you’re not going to stay?”

Trevor answered for Shep, “He didn’t say that. He wants me to convince him I’m a guy worth following. I mean, they made it all this way on their own. Why hand it over to a stranger now, right?”

The old policeman nodded as he listened.

“I’m not going to roll over and do tricks. I can’t call lightning from the sky or part the waters of the lake. The only thing I can do is tell you what’s going on here.”

“Yeah?” Corso waved his hand. “What’s that?”

Trevor left no room for debate. “We’re done running. We may hide a little longer, but we’re done running. I’m looking for survivors. The ones that are out there had the strength and smarts to stay alive. People like you, and me, and your friend Nina.”

Corso chuckled. “So, what, this is like the new Garden of Eden?”

“Oh no. We gather our strength, then we’re turning and fighting.”

“Fighting?” Corso’s surprise caused his voice to boom. “You can’t fight this. It’s over, man. The best we can do is make it ‘till tomorrow.”

“If that’s what you think then you need to go hide in the hills. It’s going to take a while but when we’re ready we’re going to push back.”

“News flash, Chief,” Corso ranted while Shepherd watched silently. “No one could stop this and others had a lot more fire power than you got here!”

Trevor tried to explain, “We were taken by surprise. Military units were scattered, cut off, and overwhelmed. Still, the people who did fight took a lot of the bad things with them before being over run. Now we regroup until the time is right.”

Sal asked, “And who decides when that is?”

“I do.”

“Merda! And who are you? What brigade did you command, Chief?”

“Me?” Trevor wondered aloud. “I’m just…I’m just a link in a chain.”

“What does—”

Shepherd finally returned to the discussion, cutting off Sal in the process.

“I got to admit, parting the water would have been a nice touch.”

Captain Jerry Shepherd smiled.

*

“Hello,” Lori spoke to Nina Forest.

Nina, still kneeling, gave the Rottie another pat on the head and responded meekly, “Yeah, uh, hello.”

“We didn’t get a chance to talk earlier.”

Nina stood and hoisted the HK Mp5 over her shoulder. She wore black BDUs but time and action had dulled the color nearly gray in some spots.

When Nina said nothing Lori reminded, “I’m the one who cleaned you up, made sure you didn’t have a fever, all while you were knocked out,” she tapped her own head to make the point.

“Yeah, sure,” Nina mumbled as she watched the Rottweiler trot away.

“We looked for you for almost three days.”

“Glad Shep found me.”

Lori corrected, “Actually, it was my husband, Jon. Your friend Shep was on the bench getting his leg stitched.”

“Oh,” Nina’s eyes pointed anywhere but at Lori.

Mrs. Brewer did something she did not usually do; she waited patiently.

Well, she waited somewhat patiently.

“Okay,” Lori groaned. “I can see this is going to be difficult.”

“Look,” Nina put it out there. “I’m not trying to be rude but I just don’t have any interest in getting to know anyone around here.”

“Because you don’t plan on staying long.”

Nina nodded.

“I thought your man Shepherd was in there right now making that decision.”

“Right.”

“And you’re sure he’s going to decide that you guys should keep on marching.”

“Right.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’ve seen what happens to people who stay in one place,” Nina told Lori but still avoided eye contact. “They’re sitting ducks.”

“And that’s how you guys stayed alive? By moving around?”

“That’s right, yeah. We were assigned to a rescue station and barely got out alive. There were eight of us back then. Now we’re down to three. I’m just saying that we’ve been on the move ever since, and it’s better that way.”

Lori said, “Guess you got kind of lucky.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, you’re lucky Trevor decided to stay in one place…here. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to pull your butts out of the fire.”

That did not sit well with Nina Forest.

Lori quipped, “You remember Trevor, right? The guy who saved you is also the guy whose neck you nearly broke.”

Nina’s brow furled. It pleased Lori to see she had annoyed Forest. At least being annoyed was a reaction. It opened the door for a lot of other stuff. Lori pushed another button.

“I see that ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ aren’t words you’re good with.”

“Huh? What’s that?”

“Well, you owe Trevor and Jon a ‘thank you’ for saving all of you and you also owe Trevor a big ‘sorry’ for nearly killing him. Don’t you think?”

Nina apparently did not think so.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are—”

Lori smiled a big friendly smile as she cut Nina off and extended a hand.

“I’m Lori Brewer, pleased to meet you.”

The surprise gesture left Nina dumbfounded. She could think of no other recourse than to limply shake Lori’s extended hand.

Odin, the Norwegian Elkhound who had tracked Nina’s scent, trotted across the yard and affectionately licked Nina’s fingers. Much as Lori’s surprise offer of a handshake, Nina felt compelled to pet the dog between its ears.

Lori sarcastically said, “Uh-oh. You’ve done it now. You’ve gone and made a friend.”

Before Nina could reply, the front door opened. Shepherd and Corso came out with Trevor following. Nina hustled to Shep as if searching for the safety of his shadow.

Shep said to Trevor, “So that won’t be any problem? You have enough ammo?”

“No problem. What’s here is yours.”

Lori Brewer maneuvered around the conversation and disappeared inside the mansion.

“Great. Thanks. We’ll check out your armory in a bit. Give me a chance to get us ready.”

Trevor returned inside, closing the door behind. Nina jumped over Shep with questions.

“So, what? Is he giving us ammunition?”

“Nina…” Shep started and Sal Corso finished, “We’re stayin’ here.”

Nina’s mouth froze open but that lasted only a second before her mouth worked again.

“What? What? Shep, we can’t stay here. This clown’s just a kid!”

“Yep, seems to me he’s not even twenty-three years old,” he used her age against her.

“I’m just saying that I don’t see anything here that’s worth staying for.”

“Nina,” Shepherd spoke in his Captain’s voice. “We’re staying here and we’re going to be a part of this. And you know what? You’re going to listen to him. We all are. How things go down the road…well I reckon we’ll find out ‘bout that when we get there.”

Nina bit her lower lip and shook her head.

“Why?”

Her protest lacked force. She could not use forceful words with Shep.

“I see two reasons. The first is I’m tired of running.”

Nina muttered, “The second?”

Shep glanced at Sal, then to Nina again, and struggled on how best to explain.

“Have you looked into his eyes? I mean really looked? Ever since the world went to Hell, everyone I meet looks tired and afraid. But this guy—this kid…I look in his eyes and I don’t see tired and afraid. I see eyes that are looking at something I didn’t think existed no more. I see eyes that can see something none of us can see.”

Sal spat, “What kinda shit is that? What does he see?”

Shepherd told them, “A future.”

Stonewall

“Always mystify, mislead and surprise the enemy; and when you strike and overcome him, never let up in the pursuit. Never fight against heavy odds if you can hurl your own force on only a part of your enemy and crush it. A small army may thus destroy a large one, and repeated victory will make you invincible.”

—General Stonewall Jackson, circa 1860s

At one time, the Café Commons on the campus of Penn State Lehman served hot meals and sandwiches to hungry students. While most of the booths and fancy latticework remained intact, wooden tables and chairs lay in pieces. Based on the low growls from the K9s ahead of Jon’s patrol, whatever caused the mess still lurked nearby.

Two black and tan Rottweilers trotted through the smashed doors; their paws crunched on broken glass and splinters. Jon entered next with Sal Corso and Shepherd.

A dim glow from the cloudy afternoon slipped in through several wide windows to provide some illumination; tactical lights on their M4 carbines did the rest.

They saw a drop ceiling that had literally dropped in several places with electrical cords, tiles, and bent metal rods drooping from above. They also saw several doors leading away from the room as well as a buffet counter where students had once stood in line for meals.

“Damn,” Sal coughed. “What the hell is that smell?”

“Rotting food?” Jon hoped.

Shepherd said, “Something worse than that, I think.”

Two more Rottweilers entered and the dogs fanned out, sniffing the air as they moved.

“Looky here,” Shepherd shined his light toward a metal door. A coating of slime covered the letters ‘office’ on a small placard. Dents pounded around the frame suggested that whatever had left the slime had also tried to batter in the door.

“Wow,” Jon said, “I can’t wait to meet—”

A sharp bark cut him off. The dogs pointed their eyes, ears, and snouts toward the buffet counter. Something moved back there.

The three men raised their rifles in that direction.

“Hey,” Jon called. “We’re friends. C’mon out, we’re here to help.”

No answer. No reaction. No movement.

Shepherd grabbed a metal napkin holder from the floor, held it for the others to see, and then tossed it over the counter. It hit out of sight with a clang.

The ‘survivor’ revealed itself in the shine of their flashlights: Green, big, and pissed. It ‘crawled’ up the wall with the speed of a sprinter. The dogs burst into barks. M4s spit fire.

After reaching the ceiling, the monster slithered toward them upside-down: a big star-shaped creature with slimy slug skin and a center bulb with two Squid-like eyes.

Bullets from the trio of carbines ripped away more ceiling tiles, sparked off metal struts, and sent clouds of dust exploding from above, yet several rounds found their mark. Yellow goo erupted and the creature fell from the ceiling, scattering the quartet of dogs as it plopped to the floor. A smelly fluid dribbled from the motionless fiend.

“Been here one friggin day,” Sal complained. “And I nearly get eaten by a god damn—”

“AAAAAA!” screamed a loud voice: a battle cry of sorts.

That voice came from a man who rushed out from the ‘office’ door wielding a baseball bat. He ran straight for the now-dead Star monster and battered it with his weapon again, and again; thump-squish; thump-squish.

“Relax there, partner,” Shep grabbed the bat away. “We took care of it.”

“A…guys?” Sal’s voice wavered.

Sal stood straight with a pistol pressed to his temple. The man with the bat had not been the only one hiding in the office. In fact, a whole family of folks came from there, including one man now holding a gun to Sal’s head.

“Hey, whoa, easy there,” Shepherd slowly set the baseball bat on the floor.

“I’m doing the talking. Rifles on the ground, now.”

The 30-ish man had thin, dirty jet-black hair and sported an overgrown beard that was the work of time, not choice. His hand trembled as he held a Glock to Sal’s head. His clothes—a Penn State jumpsuit with the gift shop price tag still attached—hung loose from his bony body.

Jon said, “We’re all friends here.”

The man who had swung the baseball bat—a South Asian looking fellow—said, “Mister Washburn, I am not thinking this is the correct course of action.”

Washburn—the man with the pistol—answered, “I’ve seen what happens when you trust people these days. These three could be cannibals like those whacks I ran into last month. No thanks, Danny doesn’t want to end up on the menu.”

“Is that your name? Danny?” Jon asked. “Hey, Danny, we’re looking for survivors. We’ve got all kinds of supplies and food a few miles from here.”

The darker-skinned baseball-bat man said, “Is that true? Would my family be welcome?”

Jon glanced to the office and saw whom else the baseball bat protected: a lovely woman, a six-year-old boy, and a girl of eleven or so, all sharing the same complexion as their father.

Jon said, “That’s why we’re here. Our dogs picked up the scent of survivors.”

Danny held firm. “Food? Yeah, sure. We’d probably be the main course.”

Jon tried another approach.

“No, no. For our main course we usually have steak.”

Danny’s gun wavered.

“Steak?”

Jon repeated what he learned the night before: “It seems Sal here is the expert Chef in our group. How would you do them, Sal?”

Sal, the gun to his head, mumbled out one corner of his mouth, “Huh? Ah, well, I would, um, well I’d broil a couple of fillets, get a real good, you know, sizzle going. Gotta leave a bit of pink through the middle. Real juicy, capire?”

“Jui—cy?”

Sal relaxed despite the gun thanks to his passion for cooking. “I make a mean mushroom glaze with a little, um, Worcestershire sauce and olive oil.”

Jon stepped forward, smiled, and said, “The wine cellar is stocked with Merlots that wash steak down perfectly but you don’t want to eat too much at dinner. We’ve got one of those ice cream machines—you know, the kind with the crank—and with the fresh milk from the farm, well, I think we’ve got a pint of Strawberry in the freezer right now.”

Danny blinked fast and said, “You got all kinds of supplies at this place? And…steaks?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “Everything you need and lots to eat.”

Danny removed the gun from Sal’s temple and popped the magazine.

“Do you got any bullets? I’ve been empty for three weeks now.”

*

Trevor had decided the first-floor den was too small for an effective nerve center and he did not like the big French windows behind the desk; they made the room feel exposed. Nonetheless, he stored some reference materials there and was searching through data on the water table in the Wyoming Valley when Jon and his charge of survivors entered.

Jon announced as the five arrivals filed in, “Trevor, may I present Omar Nehru, his wife Anita, and their children.”

Once again, Jon beamed. Another successfully completed mission that, in this case, began when a patrol caught scent of humans at the nearby Penn State Lehman campus.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Trevor extended his hand.

“I must be thanking you quite much,” Omar shook Trevor’s hand fast. “If for no other reason than to save us from the ramblings of Mr. Washburn.”

Danny Washburn—a smile forcing its way from beneath the overgrown beard—entered last and waved at the mention of his name.

Omar continued, “We were considering mass suicide. Living on the Bisquik and cans of the fruit was difficult enough, but we have lived with Mr. Washburn’s juvenile puns for nearly two months and that has been making us contemplate such drastic action.”

Washburn said, “Don’t let Omar’s Quickie Mart accent fool you; it’s just a front to keep you guessing. It goes away when he’s scared or really pissed.”

Anita stepped forward, cutting off her husband’s response before it started.

“Thank you, Mr. Stone, for having us.” Despite a ragged appearance from months of hiding and—apparently—refereeing between Omar and Danny, Anita Nehru came across as a woman of intelligence and grace. “We are all quite hungry and my son has a bad cough.”

Trevor knelt in front of the young boy. Like his mother, the child appeared thin and worn but also like his mother he saw a strength—a dignity—in his eyes.

Jon said, “Omar here was an Engineering Professor at Penn State.”

Trevor glanced to Jon, then back to the boy and said, “We have some antibiotics in stock that’ll fix you right up, little guy.” He stood and faced Omar. “Is that true?”

“Yes, this is true. We came from India five years ago for the position. I am thinking it was a bad decision after all that has happened. Would you be having any cigarettes?”

Trevor laid a hand on his shoulder. “How are you with solar power arrays?”

He did not wait for an answer. Trevor told all the newcomers what he had told the police officers from Philadelphia: “I take it Jon filled you in on the way over about how things work around here. We have supplies, security, and medicines but we also have a purpose. This is not a refugee camp, and it’s not a democracy, either. If you accept that, then you are welcome to stay.”

Omar and his wife nodded. Trevor turned to Danny who stroked his beard.

Jon said, “Washburn here is from Washington. He worked for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.”

Danny waved his empty Glock. “I brought my own gun. Ran out of bullets, though. I was up here visiting my mother in a nursing home. Anyway, her heart gave out when this all started and I was kind of stranded.”

“Okay, Danny,” Trevor repeated his question. “Are you willing to take orders from me?”

“Well, like your man said, I worked for the Federal Government so I’ve spent my life taking orders from some pretty big assholes. You can’t possibly be worse.”

*

Shepherd moved into one of the guest rooms, joining Trevor, Sheila and the Brewers already staying at the main house. Sal claimed one of the apartments above the garage as did Danny Washburn whose appearance changed from grizzly to clean-cut after a shave and a shower. Omar and his family occupied the A-Frame house beyond the northern fence of the estate. The A-Frame’s garage had a tiny second-floor apartment that Nina called home. Or, rather, she considered it a place to stay. Omar connected a portable generator to provide electricity for his family and Nina.

As for Sheila Evans, the more people joined the estate, the more she withdrew.

The calendar came to October 6th.

*

Trevor Stone, Nina Forest, and Danny Washburn undertook the glamorous mission of siphoning gas from abandoned vehicles. They drove a Humvee filled with fuel containers as well as the obligatory rubber hose. Trevor also brought a healthy dose of fuel stabilizer.

Despite Nina’s grumbling, their mission bore fruit: nearly fifty gallons of gasoline crammed into the cargo hold of the Hummer even before they arrived at the crowded parking lot of a small strip mall.

That mall sat dead center in a convoluted starfish-shaped intersection in Shavertown, with each fin a different rural road. In between those fins rested a handful of country homes, a wide-open field, and the modern “Shavertown” high school (home of the “Mountaineers!”). In the distance stretched rolling, forested hills.

Twenty-plus cars sat dormant in the parking lot. Trevor pitied the poor bastards who, on the day of reckoning, met their fate running errands to the drug store, Radio Shack, or the bank that sat on its own island away from the other shops. Of course, he sympathized with those caught at “Gertrude Hawke Chocolates.”

They parked the Humvee amidst the derelict vehicles and exited, each armed with an assault rifle and an empty gas can.

Trevor had not brought any K9s; he wanted cargo space for gas containers. Besides, at only three miles from the estate, long-range K9 patrols went through that area every other day.

The trio crossed the parking lot unfazed by a charred chunk of human body or the skeletal remains of a horse-sized alien animal. Either the smell of death and decay had faded or their noses grew accustomed.

“This is what saving humanity is all about?” Washburn asked with both hands in the pockets of a denim jacket to keep a cold breeze at bay. While still underweight, Danny no longer looked emaciated after spending most of his first day gorging. “What do you guys do for fun?”

For the first time, Trevor heard Nina joke and she did it perfectly deadpan.

“Today’s Tuesday, right? Tuesday is orgy night.”

“It’s Wednesday,” Danny sounded unduly optimistic.

“Oh well, you missed it.”

“Shit. Just my luck.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. He would have been happy to hear Nina make with the sarcasm except he sensed her tone: she belittled. She was not making a joke; she felt it all was a joke.

Washburn, on the other hand, jumped into the spirit of things right off the bat. Trevor believed Danny a solid addition to the group despite his warped sense of humor.

Of course, when he thought about “solid additions” he also thought of the opposite. In the last day, Trevor had seen Sheila Evans once: sitting in a dark corner of the dining room eating breakfast. He did not know how she would cope when Sal opened his kitchen in the basement of a nearby Methodist church. She would actually need to leave the mansion in order to eat.

The three scavengers approached an overturned Dodge Ram truck. Trevor opened a gas can while Washburn prepared the rubber hose.

Without warning, the under carriage of the vehicle erupted into flames. A crackling sound accompanied a wave of intense heat. Trevor stumbled away from the surprise inferno.

A burst of weapons fire from his left.

Nina…Nina is firing toward the strip mall.

Trevor shook his head to clear the spots from his eyes. Shell casings flew from Nina’s gun; Danny dropped to a knee with a hand on his head where the flash fire had singed his scalp.

We are under attack.

He un-slung his M4 and followed Nina’s aim.

As his mind re-focused, he realized his error: they should have secured the shopping area first. Aliens charged from the stores there. They were organized and armed.

Trevor’s reeling mind thought of them as platypuses because of big duckbills. They also sported two muscular arms and wobbled on three legs. They would have been humorous looking, like some bad cartoon aliens on Space Ghost…would have been funny if not for balls of plasma spitting from weapons resembling a cross between a musket and a Super Soaker squirt gun.

He hoisted Danny to his feet with one arm and ordered, “Fall back, fall back!”

They knew ‘fall back’ did not mean run for the Humvee. The right flank of the platypus-things cut off that avenue of escape.

Plasma flew over their heads. Nina’s marksmanship knocked down two of the attackers but more appeared. There must have been a dozen in the stores.

They retreated into the bank building through a smashed plate glass window. Nina flipped over a desk for cover.

“This is just great,” she moaned and squeezed a three-round burst toward the enemy.

The attackers did not pursue into the building. Instead, they formed a line outside, firing pot shots from behind parked cars.

“I don’t get it,” Trevor said. “This area has been empty. The patrols didn’t find anything.”

“Look, your patrols screwed up!” Nina’s angry roar bellied her meek demeanor.

A chaotic hail of enemy bolts blasted into the lobby smashing what remained of the windows and leaving smoking black holes wherever they hit. The heat from the fiery plasma warmed the lobby, threatening to ignite a fire.

Danny Washburn mumbled curses as he dealt with a second-degree burn on his forehead. However, he could still fight despite the pain.

Trevor produced a radio from his utility belt. He had to shout above the firefight.

“Home plate, come in, this is left field!”

“Oh man,” Washburn grinned. “Did you think that one up?”

“We need assistance!” Trevor radioed. “We’re at the Shavertown mall by the high school! Need immediate assistance! Under fire!”

Static.

Nina observed the platypus’ lack of assault with the frustration of a trapped animal awaiting the predator’s pounce: “Why aren’t they moving in? What are they waiting for?”

Another bolt, then another, whizzed by. A framed picture above the vacant loan officer’s desk fell and shattered.

“Wait a second,” Trevor said. “I’ve got a bad feeling. Let me check something.”

He crawled toward the far side of the lobby as plasma shots streaked overhead. The windows on that side afforded a view across one ‘fin’ of the intersection toward the large field. At the end of that field stood a tree line…and a row of figures: maybe fifty from what he could see. Nearly a mile away but marching forward. No, wobbling forward.

“Damn!”

“What? What is it?” Washburn shouted between bursts of fire.

“That’s why the patrols didn’t catch their scent!” Trevor explained as he crawled back. “Because they weren’t here yesterday!”

“What are you saying?” Nina yanked free an expended magazine.

A bolt of energy exploded the edge of the toppled desk into splinters.

“These ones are a scouting party!”

Nina fit a new magazine in her rifle, slapped the bolt closed, popped her head above the barricade, let fly a series of bullets, and then ducked behind their tenuous cover again.

“And how do you know that?”

Track lighting crashed to the floor behind the teller stations raising a cloud of dust.

Trevor told her, “Because the rest of their army is about five minutes away.”

Nina shouted, “Oh, this is just great! I knew this shit would happen! I knew it!”

Trevor spoke with a commander’s voice: “Cowboy up, soldier! I don’t need fighters who lose it at the first sign of trouble!”

Her icy blue eyes widened. Nina mumbled something, popped up again, took aim at the scouting party cornering them, and plugged one of the things above its beak.

Good, Trevor thought. Be angry but don’t be discouraged.

“Home plate this is left field, do you copy?”

This time an answer came, but static overwhelmed whatever voice tried to reply.

“I can’t hear you, home plate, but if you can hear me we are at the Shavertown shopping center across from the high school!”

The plasma shots from outside stopped. The bank fell quiet except for the crack, twitch, and flutter of debris floating about. The three waited behind the over turned desk…waited…the silence broke with a sound that made Trevor think of an eight ball sinking in the side pocket on a pool table. Something rolled in to the building; sort of a glowing ping-pong ball.

Washburn gasped, “Oh crap.”

The device rolled at their makeshift barricade. The three bolted in different directions.

The glowing ball exploded, shattering the desk. Shards of wood rained through the lobby and the concussion shook the entire building. More paintings and community service awards fell from walls. Once-important now-meaningless documents flew around like a ticker tape parade.

Trevor pushed off a desk chair that had landed on him and realized, yes, his limbs remained although a ripple of splinters in his forearm provided a painful sting.

Nina avoided the blast by toppling another desk for cover. Washburn jumped behind the teller windows. Both appeared unharmed.

Trevor dared a glance toward the field. The line of infantry moved slowly but relentlessly. Time favored the bad guys.

Plasma bolts rained in again. Trevor and Danny joined Nina at the newly overturned desk as the hot streaks of energy searched randomly for targets.

Trevor knew they needed to escape before the main force arrived. He spied a plan. A long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

Their besiegers ringed the front of the bank using parked cars for cover, including his Humvee. In fact he could see it, barely, through the smoke of battle.

“Nina, how good are you at tossing a grenade?”

During their stay at one of the doomed rescue stations, Shep’s team scored a few anti-personnel grenades, courtesy of the Pennsylvania National Guard. Nina carried one.

Trevor tapped her shoulder and pointed at the Humvee.

“Are you nuts? I can’t waste this thing, I only brought one!”

Two quick enemy bursts flew low over their heads, exploding a teller’s station behind.

“Do it!” Stone raised his weapon and ordered Washburn: “Suppression fire!”

Their storm of bullets forced the platypuses into cover. Nina pulled the pin, stood, and heaved the grenade. It looped through the air, rattled across the hatchback of a Honda Accord, and bounced next to the rear wheels of the Humvee.

One…Two….Three…the grenade detonated. Chunks of car flew away from the explosion. The gasoline containers in the Humvee rocketed skyward, overheated, and blew. Burning fuel—like napalm—rained over the enemy and caused a chain reaction as it splashed on parked cars. Those cars, in turn, exploded spawning curling fireballs of yellow, orange, and black.

Two of the platypuses evaporated in the explosions, four more wobbled around on fire squealing an ungodly noise. Shock overcame the remaining creatures. They dove to the ground or staggered about, overcome by the noise, the smoke, and the heat.

As suicidal as it felt, Trevor knew survival hinged on taking the offensive. He stood and mustered his comrades for a forward charge.

A noise rose above the sharp report of the explosions and the crackle of the fires.

Trevor halted their charge a step outside the bank.

WOH-WHO-EY! WOH-WHO-EY!

A ball of black smoke from the burning cars created a visceral wall at the end of the lot. That smoke parted as a human force came galloping through. Literally galloping on horseback raking the platypuses with pistol and rifle fire. The leader of the cavalry swung a sword and relieved one of the creatures of its head.

Already confused and disorientated from the explosions, the alien scouts deteriorated into disorganized rabble firing nary a shot as the horse soldiers exterminated them one by one.

Twenty riders and three wagons followed their leader through the smoke. They dodged and weaved between fireballs and flames as they finished off the creatures. The last soldier of the platypus’ vanguard dropped its rifle and ran for the candy store, suffering a bullet in its back.

Trevor felt certain the leader of the new arrivals must be an illusion. He rode tall in the saddle with a thick beard and handlebars mustache as well as heavy but well-groomed side burns. He wore a hat made of fur-felt material with a creased crown wrapped by a grosgrain band and a matching jacket with rows of ornate buttons. Both the jacket and the hat were colored in old mist gray, recalling the color of the confederacy during the War Between the States.

Other than their leader, the riders dressed in “normal” outfits such as fading leather jackets, vests, overcoats, sweatshirts, jeans, slacks, and more.

The man in charge gazed at the field and the approaching line of enemy forces.

“Mister Ross!” He commanded from his mount. “Stand to and deploy the cannon!”

Mr. Ross, a thick-necked black man with a shaved head and bulldog jowls, dismounted and stood at the edge of the parking lot overlooking the field full of incoming attackers.

Mr. Ross’ deep voice nearly shook the ground: “You heard the General! Mortar team assemble on my mark!”

Four people jumped from a wagon: an elderly man, a young woman, a man with a goatee, and a chubby fellow wearing a “Maryland Terrapins” sweatshirt. They produced two light military mortars and ammunition boxes from the wagon.

“Steady…steady,” the ‘General’ encouraged as he viewed the approaching line through field glasses. A young boy, maybe twelve years old and also on horseback, waited in the General’s shadow holding a trumpet.

“Mr. Ross, range is 100 meters.”

“Range! One! Hundred!”

The mortars fired with a dull ‘thwoop’. Their missiles whistled over the field then fell upon the enemy. Two explosions rocked the approaching force. Several of the aliens bounced into the air like rag dolls tossed by a child. More of that ungodly squealing noise.

“Do you need medical attention?”

The question came from a thirty-ish woman on horseback dressed in a rugged navy blue outfit straight from the Orvis catalog with her hair in a meticulously crafted bun. She projected a prim and proper manner. She also carried a high-powered hunting rifle.

While the sound of exploding mortar shells played in the background, she repeated, “Do you require medical attention?”

“Um…”

“Yes,” Danny Washburn answered for Trevor. “Yes, in fact, I do. Ouch.”

The woman’s soft voice morphed to a coarse yell: “MEDIC!”

Two teenage sisters attended to Washburn with ointment and a bandage. Trevor and Nina drifted across the lot through puffs of smoke and around burning debris. Neither could believe the sight before them.

More rounds of mortar fire scored hits in the thick of the alien formation, inflicting heavy casualties to the point that the enemy called off their assault. The platypuses about-faced and backtracked in an orderly manner. The General decided not to let them withdraw so easily.

“Cease fire, Mr. Ross.”

“Mortar teams, HOLD YOUR FIRE!”

The General spoke to the boy at his side, “Billy, sound the attack. Second brigade.”

He raised his trumpet and played a series of shaky bars followed by a ‘charge’ melody.

Ten of the horse-mounted fighters galloped forward and leaped the short ledge into the field. A thin black teenager rode in the lead brandishing a pistol and yelling…

…they all yelled…

WOH-WHO-EY! WOH-WHO-EY!

A rebel yell.

The screaming, shooting, charging cavalry turned the platypus’ orderly retreat into a rout. The terrified aliens dispersed as they ran, separating into small groups.

Trevor and Nina watched the ‘Second Brigade’ finish off the aliens with small arms, circling and whooping and shouting as they slaughtered. A cloud of dust and the thunderous beat of hooves further demoralized the creatures who did not put up much of a fight.

The General’s forces regrouped in the parking lot to the sound of the bugler-with-a-trumpet playing a rough rendition of Bonnie Blue Flag.

Mr. Ross walked to Trevor and stared silently. The General galloped to that position. Mr. Ross held his mount as he slid from the saddle.

Ross boomed, “Three cheers for the General!”

The assembled cavalry whooped:

“Hoo-rah!

“Hoo-rah!

“Hoo-rah!”

The man in the Civil War era jacket approached Trevor’s trio. He removed his hat, swung it beneath him as he bowed respectfully, and announced, “Garrett McAllister at your service.”

Ross shouted, “Stonewall!”

The cavalry pumped their fists and cried, “Hoo-rah!”

General Stonewall McAllister said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Nina whispered, “He thinks he’s Stonewall Jackson.”

“My lady, I am not deaf nor am I Stonewall Jackson. My name is Garrett McAllister.”

“Thank you,” Trevor said. “You got us out of a real pinch.”

Ross’ deep voice told them, “That’s what the General does best.”

“My name is Trevor Stone; these are my friends Nina Forest and Danny Washburn. What brings you to these parts?”

The General’s own ‘friends’ approached, including the soft speaking but loud-shouting woman wearing the Orvis outdoors getup, the Second Brigade’s leader, and, of course, Mr. Ross.

“Protocol demands I introduce my officers: Kristy Kaufman, whom I believe you have met,” she smiled and waved politely. “Dustin McBride,” the young black man smirked. “And Mr. Woody Ross.” Ross bowed his head but his eyes never left Trevor.

Washburn pushed forward with one hand holding a bandage to his head.

“I know you. You’re Woody ‘Bear’ Ross. Linebacker for the ‘Skins.”

Ross said, “We don’t play football n’more.”

These were survivors. Eccentric, sure, but survivors and Trevor already understood they had traveled a long way.

“General, I am in your debt. Allow me to repay that duty by extending an invitation to you and your troop to visit my homestead. I offer good chow and comfortable quarters.”

McAllister tipped his hat, “You are a gentleman, Sir.”

Nina rolled her eyes.

“Alas, I am afraid we have pressing matters to which we must attend. Our journey nears its end and I feel we must push through.”

Nina’s annoyance carried in the tone of her voice: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Garrett studied the three for a moment and then said, “Perhaps you can be of some assistance. For nearly three months, I have searched for a special place. I can see it clearly in my mind…” his eyes glazed over as if having a vision. “I see a lake surrounded by hills and homes. I see a gathering of soldiers preparing for the wars ahead. I see the place where we belong.”

Trevor’s mind raced. The Old Man had told him to search for survivors but never suggested they would come searching for him. No, this was not the Old Man’s doing. This Garrett McAllister either had an incredible sixth sense or constructed the perfect delusion.

“I know of this place,” Trevor said. “A few miles from here, a great estate on the shores of a lake surrounded by mountains, exactly as in your vision. That place belongs to me, General, and it is where we will survive until the time is right to fight.”

General McAllister listened and with each word his eyes grew sharper. Trevor felt those eyes digging through his flesh and staring at the soul inside. At the same time, he saw the longing in McAllister’s stare; he searched for something to believe in.

“I offer a purpose, General, for you and your gallant fighters. Come with me, see for yourself, and if it is to your liking be a part of the army I am forging.”

*

“I do not know if I was driven by divinity or derangement, but I have fought all the way from South Carolina to come to this place,” were the first words “Stonewall” McAllister said as he stood on the front porch alongside Trevor after having toured the estate. Behind them, music drifted through the mansion from the welcoming party in full swing in the basement.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” Trevor answered as the two men—one dressed in the garb of a soldier of the confederacy—watched nightfall over the lake.

“Given what I see here, I sense that you are driven too, Mr. Stone,” McAllister’s eyes remained fixed on a trio of Doberman Pinschers trotting by on patrol.

“Oh, yes, well, a lot of people find the whole K9 thing a bit unsettling at first.”

“As people find my wardrobe rather curious. In both cases, our eccentricities are extensions of who we have become. In your case, these canines serve as your royal guards—the nucleus of what is to be. Not unlike the British Grenadier Guards. In this case, Trevor’s Grenadier Guards. Much more flair than merely ‘K9s’. Yes, I like that.”

“And you, General?”

McAllister smiled. The bars of his mustache nearly touched his ears.

“There is meaning in this uniform that I take to heart. Suffice to say, as long as I survive this new world I will conduct myself with honor, and never shy from battle no matter the odds.”

“The odds will be long, General.”

“True but, Mr. Stone, I present to you twenty-five skilled fighters; skilled if for no other reason than having survived dozens of battles on our march north. On their behalf, I accept your invitation and all the conditions therein. And Sir, I do not say that lightly. One of the meanings of this uniform is loyalty.”

“I am honored. We will prepare quarters for your people in houses near the estate. K9—or should I say, ‘Grenadier’—patrols will be extended for added security. We have a quantity of portable generators that Omar will connect to provide electricity to those homes. Speaking of your journey north, I am compiling an encyclopedia of hostile elements. Anita Nehru—Omar’s wife—has demonstrated a skill for sketching those creatures to aid with visual identification. I imagine you could help fill the pages of our database with all you’ve seen.”

Stonewall’s smile faded. A choir of crickets sung from the bushes.

“Beyond the mountains of this lake, you will find a world gone mad. I have seen armies of intelligent lizards in North Carolina using armor and air power. While traveling along the Blue Ridge Mountains of Old Dominion, we fought a pitched battle with primitive tribesmen who faced mortar and carbine fire with spears and arrows yet never hesitated in their assault. I do not know if they were mad or brave. And every where…monsters of unspeakable design.”

“It may be impossible, but we will have to try, General.”

“Impossible? Oh, I say not, Sir. True, during our travels north along the flanks of Interstate 81 we saw many horrors. Yet we found something else, too. We found survivors: hidden villages, campgrounds, isolated farms; places where humanity hides from the Apocalypse. They are out there waiting for hope and leadership.”

As he listened, he wondered if he, Trevor Stone—formerly ‘Dick’—could be that resourceful and heroic leader. Certainly, McAllister thought so. What about Nina? Had his mistake at the strip mall reinforced her view of him as unworthy? Or had his plan to blow up the Humvee made her think more of him?

He tried to forget about it. What did he care what she thought? Right?

McAllister said, “I best return to the festivities. Your Mr. Corso prepared Country Captain Chicken in our honor; I had better return before Bear devours it all.”

“Good night, General. And welcome.”

McAllister tipped his hat and entered the house; his sword—a museum piece, no doubt—jingled as he walked.

A moment after the door closed behind Stonewall, it opened again and Lori Brewer joined Trevor on the porch. Dogs patrolled the grounds, the crickets sung, and lake water lapped calmly to shore.

Trevor considered McAllister’s warning about what waited beyond those mountains. Yet he could not help thinking today was a good day.

Lori did her best to spoil it. “That man has problems, you know.”

“We all have problems.”

“I mean it. What made him run away and hide inside the front of a Civil War general?”

Trevor ran a hand over his cheek chasing away a mosquito and told her, “One day Stonewall will face his demons. Until then, I need fighters like him. Leaders.”

“And what happens when he faces those demons?”

“I guess the same thing that happens to anyone when they take a good look at their own soul, to see what’s really living down there.”

Lori asked Trevor; asked him, “And what is that?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Reconnaissance

Nature celebrated Stonewall’s coming to the estate with a bout of ‘Indian Summer’. Temperatures rose to the upper sixties, the skies cleared, and the sun shined. Yet at the same time, the march of autumn continued unabated as Oak, Hickory, and Maple leaves completed their metamorphosis to russet, bronze, and scarlet.

Trevor opened the balcony doors allowing a breeze and the morning sun to enter the ‘Command Center’ where his de-facto officers gathered four days after Stonewall’s arrival.

On the gigantic desk rested a map of Wilkes-Barre. Trevor pointed to an intersection.

“There, see? A dental supply company.”

McAllister—dressed in his confederate uniform with the hat politely tucked under his arm—noted in a southern drawl, “For the occasional tooth ache, I suppose?”

Shep gently pushed the General’s scabbard aside and leaned over the map, too.

Trevor pointed to another part of Wilkes-Barre. “Optical Manufacturing.”

“My wife wears lenses,” Jon said. “She’ll need a re-supply as will other people, too.”

Shepherd chimed in, “I’m more worried about our stocks of penicillin and antibiotics. Without that stuff a sore throat could turn to worse.”

Trevor said, “About thirty miles off this map is Aventis Pasteur in Swiftwater, a pharmaceutical manufacturing plant. Vaccines, antibiotics…everything. Plus four hospitals in Wilkes-Barre and plenty of doctor offices, clinics and medical labs.”

Jon Brewer tapped the tabletop just beyond the north end of the map.

“Scranton. Chamberlain Munitions. One of the biggest producers of ammo for the U.S. They do large caliber stuff but will have the materials and tools for smaller calibers, too.”

“I reckon that might be a priority for us,” Shepherd said.

Jon parodied, “I reckon you’re right.”

“Not half-bad,” the older man conceded with a smile.

Trevor swept his hand over the map saying, “Interstates 80 and 81, the PA Turnpike, all at our front door. New York and Philly both about three hours away. Tobyhanna Army Depot and Ft. Indiantown Gap; lots of goodies laying around for the taking. But closer to home we’ve got the Kingston armory and the Marine Tactical Support Wing on Route 11.”

“I see your grand strategy has vision,” Stonewall addressed Trevor. “Alas, I fear we lack the necessary…um…divisions to accomplish these goals.”

Trevor rested a hand on the eccentric’s shoulder and glanced around making eye contact with each of the three men.

“Yes, castles in the sky. Now we have to build the foundation underneath.”

A German Shepherd named “Seth” trotted in to the room passing between two Dobermans guarding the entryway. The dog tilted its head while staring at its Master.

Trevor translated: “Hostiles, not far from here. And they’ve got prisoners.”

*

The warehouse blotted an otherwise isolated stretch of gently rolling hills along a snaking country road. At one point, a tall chain link fence enclosed the entire property. Time, or Armageddon, toppled it. Benjamin Trump would have wept.

The front of the bland rectangular structure sported two windows flanking a heavy wooden door with a dented white awning above. Around the rear were loading docks for whatever widgets had shipped from and to the place. The sagging roof and flaking sky blue paint suggested the building sat neglected for decades.

The cement parking lot had shifted and cracked over the years. Grass and ugly weeds competed to grow in those cracks. Piles of old wooden shipping palettes, discarded tires, a rusted-through Volvo commercial truck, and assorted debris of a surprising variety cluttered the lot and created a maze of rubbish.

Near the front door, four Mutant hover bikes were parked around a tall pillar resembling a glowing, forty-foot replica of the Washington monument. It appeared to be a kind of power station for the vehicles.

Across the road from the warehouse, the messy parking lot, the Mutant power station, and the toppled fence waited Captain Shepherd and Stonewall McAllister hidden atop one of those forested hills. With a dozen Grenadiers waiting nearby, they observed the progress of two assault teams weaving toward the building through the labyrinth of clutter.

Trevor led the team on the left including Jon Brewer, Woody “Bear” Ross and the K9s Tyr and Seth. About fifteen yards to the right moved Nina Forest, Sal Corso and Danny Washburn. The two groups paralleled one another as they crept toward the warehouse.

Experience suggested the captives would suffer a while; Mutants proved a sadistic lot.

Nina moved her column in unison with Trevor’s. She knew the mission; she had led a hundred similar missions over the years, albeit not against alien hostage-takers.

She felt a heavy throb of frustration: I’m expected to operate under the command of an unproven kid who looks awkward holding an assault rifle?

Some piles of junk stood quite tall, casting shadows and creating alternating patches of light and dark, warm and cool. A breeze blew across the lot rousting an eclectic collection of smells living among the junk: decades old dust, animal droppings, oily rags.

Nina stopped her team and whispered to Sal, “Let’s see how much our leader knows.”

Sal cautioned, “Nina…”

She knelt next to an overturned bathtub lying atop crushed boxes and raised a tight fist: a tactical hand signal translating to “hold.” Sal and Danny recognized the signal and stopped.

After a moment, Trevor saw her signal. It did not surprise Nina when Trevor halted his group; the hold signal was rather universal.

For his part, Trevor spied a mean glare in her blue eyes. He guessed her mischief as she flashed a series of more complicated signals. She pointed to Trevor, then at her own eyes with both fingers, then made a walking motion with her fingers, then motioned toward the building.

In essence, she told him to peek in one of the windows to ascertain the situation.

Trevor made an okay sign—rather universal in itself—then he surprised her by waving a flat hand over his head.

Nina bit her lower lip. Sal saw the back of her neck burn red.

Stone had signaled that he understood and then told her to cover this area.

He then separated from his group, maneuvered around a burned out Ford Maverick, and stealthily approached one of the front windows.

Nina, behind the overturned tub, watched with a crinkle in her brow as he glanced inside the dirty window then, while leaning against the building, found Nina’s eyes—or, rather, her glare—and relayed what he had seen.

First, he held his hand wide open.

Hostiles.

Next, he held up three fingers with his thumb over his pinky meaning the number ‘six.’

Last, he held his hand to his throat followed by one finger straight up.

Hostage. One.

Sal heard Nina growl.

Forest bent her right arm at the elbow, held the hand perpendicular to her shoulder and waved. Even an elementary school kid knew the motion signaled him to return.

Trevor took his place at the front of his column and smiled. Her brow crinkled more.

She pointed at herself then held her hand toward the front of the building in a fist with the thumb on top.

I’m going to breech.

Just to piss her off, he traced his finger in the shape of an upside-down ‘U’, telling her to breech the door. As if she might actually kick in the window.

With her cheeks burning red, Nina pointed at Trevor, then pushed her finger down and circled it, telling him to take his team to the rear of the warehouse.

Trevor flashed the “okay” sign, paused for along second, and then swept his hand slowly, palm up, toward the building essentially saying in an age-old motion used by so many New York City doormen, after you…

Sal whispered, “Are you two done flirting?”

If looks could kill…

Trevor led his team to the rear loading docks. Nina waited a moment then—feeling the need for violence—advanced her element to the front door.

Sal placed the barrel of his shotgun against the door latch. Nina used her fingers to count silently to three at which point Sal pulled the trigger. The blast echoed across the parking lot and out into the wilderness. Slivers of paint and wood exploded. The lock disintegrated, as did a fair measure of the doorframe. Nina kicked open what remained of the limp door and bolted through with Danny Washburn and Sal several paces behind.

One large room—cluttered at its edges with scattered boxes, rusted barrels, Metro shelves, and an old forklift—dominated the warehouse’s interior.

Five of the leather-clad Mutants with the oversized mouths gathered in a tight group at the center of the room surrounding a live hostage. A sixth Mutant sat atop a high stack of crates gnawing on a femur. The remains of two other hostages lay strewn across the floor where fresh blood mixed with ancient oil and grease stains.

Nina rushed forward, surprising the enemy. Her swift movement and uncanny precision surprised them even more. The battle computer inside Nina Forest’s mind raced for targets, angles, cover, and projected counter-moves.

Her first shot from her MP5 skewered the throat of a Mutant, dropping the creature to a lifeless hulk before it could react in any way. Even as that initial bullet fired, she locked on the next target. Another burst from her gun. The first round missed and hit the far wall. The remaining bullets from the burst slammed into another monster’s chest as it pulled a cumbersome flintlock from a holster.

Nina cut and rolled to her left. Her short ponytail fluttered in the air. She righted her roll and knelt next to a metal drum. Her speed and determination unnerved the Mutants to the point that they did not notice more humans entering through an open loading dock door, or even the men behind the woman. Nina captured their complete attention.

Forest fired again. A trio of bullets sprayed a third Mutant; the heavy mace it wielded slipped from its dead hands but had not yet hit the ground when enemy number four felt lead from Nina’s weapon. That brute’s flintlock exploded a shell into its own booted foot as its finger yanked the trigger in a death spasm.

Nina did not pause to observe falling maces or spasms. A fifth Mutant sat atop the high stack of crates. Her tactical analysis gave that one next-to-last priority because she realized—in a quick glance upon entering—that its hands were occupied with bones.

She raised the iron sights of her gun but before she pulled the trigger that Mutant tumbled from the crates. Jon Brewer, entering through the loading docks with Trevor, plugged it before Nina could claim every kill.

Regardless of Jon’s prize, Nina Forest struck fear into her enemies and awe into her comrades. She saw everything.

What looked fast and heated was—to her—slow and methodical. Like an expert nine-ball player, Nina thought a shot ahead, planning and strategizing in the blink of an eye. The gun—whatever the weapon—became an extension of her body. The noise, the smoke, the flash of the muzzle; these were the sights and sounds that filled her with purpose.

As he watched, Trevor realized what made Nina Forest a great warrior. Not some Amazonian strength or perfect marksmanship but her instinct, her mind, her eyes…they worked faster than the bullets she fired. She understood battle: every nuance. She moved fluidly with every part of her body working to fire, for defense, to kill. She wore her cloak of death dealing comfortably.

Naturally.

Trevor’s admiration subsided as he realized what she planned next.

The last Mutant held a knife to the throat of a late-20s man with brown hair, lots of razor stubble, and the first cuts from what would have been hours of sadistic slicing. However, that blade wavered, suggesting the monster sought to negotiate.

Nina discarded her Mp5 and approached the remaining creature and its hostage with her pistol in a two-hand grip.

Trevor tried to intervene. “Nina…wait…”

BLAM! BLAM!

She fired two shots because the first missed the thing’s head by an inch. The second exploded its oval skull. The knife and the monster fell to the floor.

The captive staggered; shocked that two bullets had nearly grazed his head.

Nina said nothing to the hostage, nothing to the others. She casually retrieved her assault rifle and made to exit the building.

Woody Ross and Sal approached the rescued man who shook uncontrollably.

Trevor’s eyes darted from the freed hostage to Nina as she walked away.

Danny, at his side, said, “Christ, that woman is the angel of death.”

Trevor stormed after Nina.

“Hey. I said hey!”

Nina stopped, her shoulders slumped in annoyance, and she turned to face Trevor.

“What the Hell are you doing?”

“I’m killing monsters. That’s what you want me to do, right?”

He looked at those blue eyes with fire in his own.

“You nearly killed a man.”

She answered, “Nothing to it, I killed the monster. What’s the problem?”

“The problem” he told her, “is that you missed with your first shot. So you ain’t perf—”

“The thing is dead. You should be happy. Listen—”

“No,” he commanded, “you listen. This isn’t only about killing the bad things. It’s about saving people. We aren’t going to win this by shooting without thinking.”

“Is that so? Well then maybe you got yourself the wrong girl.”

Nina turned to leave. Captain Jerry Shepherd stood there. She stopped dead in her tracks, having never before seen such a disapproving expression from Shep.

“Nina…” Shep shook his head, then walked around her toward the freed hostage whose sarcasm echoed through the place: “Hey, be sure to thank Eva Braun for nearly killing me.”

She shut her eyes, held a breath for a long second, and then walked outside alone.

*

BLAM!

The sound of the gunshot rang out. More specifically, the first shot. The one that missed.

Nina pounded her fist against the tile as the shower drizzled over her.

The pressure and the temperature of the “hot” water did not impress. Still, even the light drizzle beat weeks of no showers at all when her team had been on the run.

She soaped her body and rinsed for the fourth time; the dirt from the morning’s battle clung tough. Nina turned the squeaky faucet knob and the shower stopped. Steam filled the bathroom and coated the mirror thus hiding her reflection.

After wrapping herself in a tight towel, she walked the short hall into the orange and green 70s-styled living room where the cooler air against her hair and skin felt refreshing.

A stranger’s living room with a stranger’s furniture. She had already thrown away everything overtly personal: photos, CDs, clothes from the previous occupants. That did not help, though, because she lacked any mementos to fill the empty space. She realized she possessed nothing overtly personal of her own.

Yet…yet maybe some day she could make it feel like home.

She shook that thought from her mind. She reminded herself how she wanted to leave. What had Shep been thinking when he decided to stay?

Nina walked to the front windows and looked out at the long driveway and the waters of the lake. Her view included the boathouse and dock across the road from the main estate. Shep sat on that dock, a fishing rod in one hand, a beer in the other.

Her stomach fluttered. Had she pushed things too far today? How he had looked at her…

Nina decided to talk to him. She needed to talk to him.

She hurried to the bedroom to find some clothes. Her clothes. A soldier’s clothes.

*

As Trevor crossed the dock, the planks creaked with each footfall while waves lapped lazily below. The warm afternoon, the blue sky, and the docile waters conspired to paint a picture of summer. The lie would not last, but it remained an enjoyable lie for the time being.

Jerry Shepherd relaxed in a patio chair at the rim of the small pier. The business end of his fishing pole drifted in the water hoping some unlucky trout would nibble. One empty and one half-full can of beer waited in arm’s reach. Next to the beer rested a shotgun. These days, who knew what might come out of the lake?

Trevor found a chair by the boathouse door and dragged it next to Shep. He sat and stared at the water, too.

“Catch anything?”

“Not a damn thing. Say, how’s that fella we pulled out of harm’s way this morning? What was his name? Evan…Evan something?”

“Evan Godfrey,” Trevor said. “He’s shaken up. Physically he’s fine but he’s starving and pretty freaked out right now.”

“Funny,” Shep flashed a wry smile. “That seems to be the only type of folks we get around here these days.”

“Ain’t that the truth? In any case, he’s not talking much. It’s going to take some time for him to come out of his shell. It’ll be a while before we know much about Evan Godfrey.”

The water swooshed and gurgled. A bird sung an enthusiastic song, perhaps also deceived by the weather.

Shepherd, still looking into the distance, said, “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if she were a man.”

“What?”

“Now c’mon Trev, you know I’m no idiot.”

Neither of the two noticed Nina Forest as she approached the boathouse, but when she heard Trevor’s voice, she stopped. She turned to leave but did not. Instead, she listened.

Trevor said, “You’re right. If she were a guy, we’d think he was some sort of Rambo.”

“But because she’s a woman, I reckon it’s hard to accept what the eyes see.”

Trevor asked. “What is she like when her defenses are down? When she’s not being Mrs., Godzilla?”

Shepherd chuckled. “Well now that’s a new one. Mrs. Godzilla?”

Trevor watched the older man’s eyes sharpen to pencil thin as he focused on something out over the sparkling waters of the lake.

“I don’t know if Nina’s defenses have ever been down. I never met anyone like her.”

Shepherd turned his head slowly to Trevor and drove the point home: “I reckon that’s why I think she’s special. Not just the fightin’ and all, but whatever else is inside there…well it hasn’t come out to the world yet. Like the hard parts of her have grown up faster than the rest.”

“I see.”

Shepherd corrected, “No you don’t. You’re too busy trying to pull this together and here she goes giving you trouble. Seems to me you’re wondering if it was worth it, asking us to stay. Seems to me you’re worried that one loose cannon could muck up the whole works.”

Trevor smiled. Damn, he liked this old timer.

“I can see why she looks up to you so much.”

“Then that makes one of you. Personally, I haven’t been able to figure it myself. I met her when she was a trainee. I put her through Hell. As soon as I figured out she had a way about her, I made it even harder for the girl. Ever since, it seems I’m the only person that gets through to her. Half the time she’s this shy little girl that won’t say a peep. But when the action heats up…well, seems I’m the only person that can keep her from going off half-cocked. Can’t say I mind it, though. Sometimes I feel like I got that kid I never had.”

Trevor said, “Because you didn’t treat her like a girl.”

“What’s that?”

“Why she took to you,” Trevor went on. “When you put her through Hell, you put her through the same Hell you put the guys through. Maybe you were even tougher on her. You were probably the first person she’d ever met that saw a warrior first, not a cute chick.”

Shepherd stroked his gray mustache, “I suppose that’s something worth thinking about.”

“Think all you want,” Trevor stood. “Just keep her from going off half cocked.”

“I understand. You can’t have one person screwing things up.”

Trevor gave him an entirely different reason. “No, I can’t go losing her.”

“What?”

Nina, from her listening post, grew confused.

“I realized something today as I watched her fight,” Trevor explained. “I realized that we can’t lose her. We need her to win this whole thing. Without her, we’re toast. I’m toast.”

“That surprises me, after the shit she pulled today.”

“Oh, she just wanted to show me up. That hand signal thing was just a kids’ game. I’m a big boy. Taking that risk with the hostage…that was a problem. She’s got to start understanding what this is all about. She’s got to do that fast because I can’t afford to lose her now that I know what she is.”

“What she is? And what is that?”

“Well, if I’m the knight in shining armor in all this,” Trevor said, “then she’s my sword.”

*

A window and a wide counter separated the kitchen from the rest of the church basement hall. The equipment in that kitchen recalled 1960s styling but had been solidly built and well maintained over the years.

The dirty white paint of the kitchen walls differed dramatically from the dark paneling lining the rest of the basement. Dull brown linoleum, with patches of bubbles and rips, covered the floor throughout and a series of fluorescent lights radiated flat illumination over rows of long tables and metal folding chairs.

Despite the aged styling and boring ambiance, the basement offered a cheery, homey feel due to crayon sketches drawn by pre-Armageddon Sunday school kids. Tacked around the room were drawings depicting the church and its small steeple, crude portraits of Jesus and Mary, angels, disciples, and many that were no more than jumbles of colored lines from tiny hands.

The early breakfast crowd sat around the hall and included Lori Brewer. She had stationed herself alone at the end of the table furthest away from the stairs that ascended to the outside world. She held a paperback mystery.

Sal toiled at the stove aided by the two teenage sisters who had served with Stonewall as medics but who spent the two weeks since the kitchen opened working with ‘Chef’ Corso.

Lori heard the sizzle and crack of frying eggs, the beat of a whisk whipping pancake batter, the clang of dishes hauled from cupboards, and the pleasing glunk-glunk-glunk of juice poured from pitcher to glass.

She smelled salty, farm-fresh bacon, the sugary scent of syrup dripping over butter patties atop fluffy pancakes, and the whiff of her own mug of fresh-brewed coffee.

The sounds and smells surrounded her like a warm blanket chasing away goose bumps and cued memories of the diner where Jon had taken her on their very first date way back when life felt new.

Lori smiled to herself, just a little, then firmly grasped the well-worn pages of the paperback. She did read the words on those pages but the novel served as a front hiding her reconnaissance mission. If her husband found out what she was up to he would berate her for giving in to her counselor’s curiosity.

She peeked at her watch: 7:28 am.

A couple of Stonewall’s folks gathered at a table sipping coffee while Evan Godfrey, the newest addition, stumbled to the counter in search of breakfast. Lori made a mental note to get to know Evan. He had been at the estate for over a week now and she still had not talked to him.

However, Evan would have to wait. Lori had hurried to the basement that morning not for him, but for Nina Forest. Well, partly for Nina Forest.

Lori had come to know that Nina arrived at the church every morning for breakfast at 7:15 a.m., give or take exactly thirty seconds.

True to form, Nina had indeed arrived fifteen minutes ago and remained in the hall sitting by her lonesome. She studied the most up-to-date ‘Hostiles Database’ binder in between fork-fulls of eggs, strips of bacon, and the occasional sip of condensed orange juice.

Lori rested the book on the tabletop and held her coffee cup in both hands.

She waited.

While Trevor Stone and Dick Stone had few things in common, they did share one trait: neither were early risers. During the first week after the church basement opened, Lori had not seen him in the place before 8:30. However, in recent days he seemed to have found a new side to himself, a side that desired an early breakfast.

Preferably by 7:30, Lori figured.

She finished a sip of java and swapped the mug for her prop: the book.

A commotion erupted around the entrance as Danny Washburn, Jon Brewer and Trevor walked in together, laughing loudly.

Lori glanced at Nina.

Forest afforded the newcomers a brief glimpse.

Then another.

Nina shook her head as if annoyed at the distraction, and then returned her attention to the ‘Hostiles Database’.

The men stopped at the counter, grabbed mugs and plates, and Trevor led them to a table as far away as possible from Nina Forest’s position. Trevor hurried to a seat against the wall.

Lori’s eyebrow rose. She did not think it a coincidence that his seat afforded a good view of Nina.

Stone, usually a man of few words, was surprisingly vocal at breakfast in recent days, or so Lori observed. Now he spoke to Jon and Danny about sports, hunting, and projects in need of attention. All the talk interspersed with quips and laughter.

As for Nina, her eyes remained planted in the binder. Lori guessed a marching band could not force Nina’s eyes from those pages. She wondered, however, if Nina actually read the words printed there or if the binder had become her own prop, much like Lori’s mystery.

It took the three men ten minutes to devour their breakfasts. Jon broke away from the trio as they dispersed to visit with his wife. Lori alternated her eyes between Trevor, as he walked toward the exit stairs, and Nina as she kept her vision glued to the binder.

Jon asked, “Whatchya doing?”

Lori did not look at her husband. She watched Nina close as Trevor climbed the stairs. First one step, then two…a few more and he would be gone.

Nina Forest cast her eyes toward the stairs, catching a quick glimpse of Trevor as he left the basement. When he disappeared outside, Nina returned her attention to the binder.

“I said, what are you doing? Earth to Lori?”

“Oh, sorry honey,” Lori gave him a peck on the cheek.

“So what are you doing? Reading a good mystery?”

Lori smiled, “A good mystery?”

Jon did not know why she smiled. In a way, he felt glad he did not know.

“It’s a good one,” she confessed. “But I can already see where it’s going.”

Mrs. Brewer sipped her coffee.

Oh yeah, can see this coming a mile away.

The one-time counselor was not the only one who noticed. That other person sat hidden away at a tiny table in the corner picking at the remains of a canned peach.

Sheila Evans lost her appetite.

Raid

“The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the enemy’s not coming,

but on our own readiness to receive him; not on the chance of his not attacking,

but rather on the fact that we have made our position unassailable.”

Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Jon Brewer walked into the Command Center and reported, “We’re bringing the convoy vehicles around now.”

Trevor glanced up from the papers spread on the big desk and acknowledged, “Good.”

“How tough is this going to be?”

Trevor answered, “I don’t think it’s going to be hard. We hit the Cross Valley Expressway, bypass the city, get on the Interstate, and we’re at the airport. About forty minutes unless there’s stuff in our way.”

Jon did an about-face and, as he left, said, “Everything will be ready in a few minutes.”

Trevor returned his attention to the papers.

Not much had happened in the ten days since the raid on the warehouse. During that time, Trevor concentrated on consolidating the situation around the estate.

The Brewers, Shep, and Sheila lived in the main mansion. Sal, Danny Washburn, and Evan Godfrey stayed in the three apartments above the garage. Omar and his family occupied the A-Frame with Nina in the rooms above their garage.

The Rheimmers welcomed four of Stonewall’s followers to their farm. Better still, five more of Stonewall’s troop used supplies from an Agway warehouse to restart another dormant farm. That meant more crops, more cattle (some found grazing aimlessly in countryside) and more hope for the growing band of survivors.

Those of Stonewall’s crew who remained at the lake took residence in a quaint cluster of homes just past the Methodist Church where Sal ran his kitchen.

Despite Omar’s chain-smoking, he proved invaluable. Earlier that week, he led a scavenging party to the Environmental Sciences Department at the Penn State Lehman Campus where they secured a supply of doped N and P type silicon: essential ingredients for building solar panels. Combined with the “charge controller”, batteries and “inverter” in storage at the mansion, Trevor possessed the materials for a solar power array.

A work crew cut the tops off several trees to give the estate a better view of the southern sky, the best angle for collecting solar radiation.

Still, Omar warned that the long dark days of winter neared. Therefore, traditional generators would remain the primary energy source. Unfortunately, the limited quantity of portable generators could not meet the growing demand. Some of the occupied homes around the lake relied completely on candles for lighting and fireplaces for heating.

Of course, the new homesteads—including the new farm—conspired to spread thin Trevor’s most valuable resource: the Grenadiers.

Back in early August, the estate’s garrison counted more than 60 dogs of various types. Disease, accidents, and engagements claimed several K9 lives during the summer. The search for Nina Forest sacrificed another nine. Four more had been killed or mortally wounded since.

The K9s’ charge now included guarding the estate, two farms, and several homes around the lake. Furthermore, at any one time at least four bitches carried pups. Therein lay some good news: as many as 100 new Grenadiers would mature to fighting age by spring.

Interestingly, the canines mated within breed lines, maintaining the unique advantages and specific roles of each pedigree. They did their part in the grand scheme. More links on more chains, Trevor supposed.

The idea of specific roles carried over to many of the humans, too. Omar’s tinkering would be critical in the times ahead, but that was obvious as was the contributions from warriors such as Shepherd and Nina.

Finding ‘diamonds in the rough’ satisfied Trevor even more. For example, Danny Washburn could fight fine, but his lighthearted attitude provided relief from the gloom. Others, such as Sal Corso and his kitchen, found a niche beyond the battles.

Kristy Kaufman—one of Stonewall’s ‘officers’— insisted on wearing make up and clothing looted from the finest stores and carried a mirror to check her hair—which she did often—and her outfits always matched. This fascination with propriety and luxury did not come from vanity, but personal dignity: she refused to yield to the Apocalypse.

In the old world, Kristy worked as an Accounting Director at a bank. Trevor tapped her organizational skills to track the community in terms of their needs, residences, skills, and more. With help from Lori Brewer, Kristy managed a census of sorts.

Stone stepped away from the desk and onto the balcony. ‘Indian Summer’ had faded and a cold October breeze chilled his arms. He would need a jacket for the day’s work. Still, the goose bumps came not from the chill but from anticipation.

He considered today a test. He knew they would never truly go forward if they did everything piecemeal therefore, multiple tasks lay on the day’s agenda.

Last night, K9 patrols caught scent of hostiles near the village of Noxen to the north; some kind of pack animals. At dawn, Trevor had dispatched a war party of Rottweilers and Huskies to confront, assess, and eliminate the threat.

In addition, Omar would lead a team to the new farm for a review of essential needs including water supply issues and the possibility of rigging a solar power system there.

Each task—the K9 war party and Omar’s work force—ranked as important. However, neither matched the magnitude of the raid on the airport.

During Nina’s tour of duty at a rescue station outside of Philadelphia, she heard radio chatter that an army tactical air support unit abandoned prize equipment at the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre airport. Trevor organized a strike force to reach the airport and grab any goodies.

On any other day, such a raid would be a big project. On that day, it was but one of three projects. Trevor knew that he needed to be aggressive to maintain the momentum of his mission. He knew that soon ‘survive’ must change to ‘fight’.

*

An assault team mustered in the driveway. Trevor joined them after throwing a camouflage jacket over his black T-shirt and heavy gray pants.

The group chatted excitedly as they checked guns and utility belts.

Trevor had amassed a small army for the mission and they dressed the part. Jon Brewer, “Bear” Ross, and Danny Washburn wore green BDUs. Nina Forest and Jerry Shepherd dressed in their SWAT tactical outfits. Garrett “Stonewall” McAllister completed the line up in his heavy confederate coat, hat, and sword, all snatched months ago from a South Carolina museum.

As they prepared, they shared lighthearted jokes and jovial conversation, except for one person: Nina’s stiff lip and narrow eyes suggested the levity grated on her. She ignored the talk and focused on strapping tight a pistol-packed rig. Nina stretched her leg and rested a foot on the tire of a Humvee as she worked the Velcro of the holster around her upper thigh.

Danny Washburn stopped in the middle of a joke about a hitchhiking nun and a truck driver. He stepped to Nina then slowly—intently—caressed his eyes over her outstretched leg.

Danny said, “Say baby, do those legs go aaalll the way up?”

“They go all the way up,” she said. “All the way up your ass.”

He moaned, “Ooo…hey, I’m just kiddin’ ‘round.”

“ATF, right? That’s all you guys ever do, kid around. One word for you: ‘Waco.’”

That one word recalled the death of numerous ATF agents during an infamous 1993 raid.

“Why you—”

“Relax,” she said without a smile in sight. “I’m just kiddin’ ‘round.”

“Hey, easy does it,” Trevor broke in as he rested his M4 carbine on the roof of the Humvee and tied his boot.

Danny Washburn said, “I think your friend here is looking for trouble.”

“Trouble?” Trevor finished with the laces, stood, and gave Nina an inquisitive stare as if deciphering a code on her face. “No, she’s not looking for trouble.”

Danny came back, “Well she’s looking for something.”

The edge in Danny’s voice dulled. He liked Danny for that; things rolled off his back.

Trevor agreed, “Now that’s true.”

“What’s true?” Nina asked.

“You’re looking for something,” Trevor answered as he tightened his utility belt.

“Oh, I am, am I?”

“Yep,” he sounded very matter-of-fact. “But you don’t know what it is. I don’t think you even realize you’re looking. Not really. Not yet.”

“Oh brother. Let me guess. Am I looking for true love? Prince Charming? Do I need to go find a frog to kiss?”

Washburn quipped, “Ribbit.”

“Nah,” Trevor shook his head.

“Well, are you going to tell me? What am I looking for?”

“I’ll tell you,” he took two steps closer and found Nina’s blue eyes with his own. For a moment—not long enough for others to notice but Trevor noticed—for a moment something else reflected in those eyes. Something greater than cold and ice. “I’ll tell you. But not now. When the time is right. When I have to.”

He winked and turned away.

Her brow crinkled.

Trevor waved the K9s into the Winnebago and commanded everyone to, “Saddle up.”

Washburn leaned to Jon Brewer and joked, “I know what she needs. She needs a good—”

“Whoa there,” Shepherd, lurking nearby, stopped him. “It’s too early in the day for me to have to go and knock you down, son.”

“Hey,” Washburn held his hands aloft in a ‘no offense’ gesture. “I didn’t realize she was your honey, pops. Kind of robbing the cradle, don’t you think?”

Shepherd ignored Washburn and ducked into the Humvee.

Jon told Danny, “Honey? More like his daughter.”

Jon emphasized ‘like’ but Washburn mainly heard ‘daughter’. The former ATF agent turned pale and hurried to the Suburban.

Trevor sat in the RV’s driver’s seat and started the vehicle. From there he saw a sight he had not seen in a long time: Sheila Evans walking across the mansion grounds. She strolled with an arm on Sal Corso.

Sheila forced a smile and waved to Trevor.

*

The autumn sun slowly rose higher as the convoy drove through the “Back Mountain.” The golden beams lacked the strength of only a month before, barely pushing the temperature above fifty degrees. A few white, puffy clouds dotted the blue sky and carried rapidly on the wings of a cold breeze.

Mixing with the clouds, a massive ‘V’ of Canadian geese—real, honest to goodness birds that belonged on Earth—headed south. Trevor wondered what sights those birds would see on their long journey. He wondered what they would find when they returned to the lake next year.

The convoy’s path followed the main thoroughfare passing shopping centers, professional offices, and cemeteries. All of the man-made scenery looked dull and bland compared to the sea of rusty red and orange erupting across the forested slopes and woodlands. The advance of fall burst like fireworks through northeastern Pennsylvania, painting a tapestry of brilliant colors that would last a few weeks until the tree branches turned barren.

The trio of cars drove through the rock cut marking the end of the ‘Back Mountain’. At that point, the road morphed into a raised highway above the suburbs lining both sides of the Susquehanna. Creatures large and small moved down there but the caravan raced along, not stopping to observe.

As the expressway swept eastward, the northern neighborhoods of Wilkes-Barre climbed a slope toward the valley wall and overlooked the highway. A ridge of commercial buildings stood watch above the road; quiet retail temples that had been a thriving shopping district only four months prior.

The route banked sharp to the north and the convoy aimed for an exit that bridged the expressway to I-81 north. That exit went beneath an overpass where graffiti on a concrete strut asked, Why Have You Forsaken Us?

Two miles along the Interstate, they saw their first “hostile” lumbering through a far-off neighborhood. The featureless, lanky black figure stood six stories tall. Trevor thought it a walking shadow. It did not notice the convoy.

After fifteen more minutes of driving between toppled tractor-trailers, crashed cars, and flocks of crows feasting on decaying flesh, they reached the airport exit.

Located on a plateau alongside Interstate 81 and under the shadow of the Montage Mountain Ski Resort, the small ‘international’ airport incorporated two runways, one large terminal, a traffic-control tower, and a series of hangers and small buildings.

Parked cars and shuttle buses—including one overturned—sat discarded outside the terminal. A mass of skeletal remains lay near the main entrance, apparently burned to the bone by whatever fire had damaged the building’s fascia.

The convoy bypassed the terminal by breaking through a security gate and driving directly onto the tarmac.

A split and burnt fuselage littered one runway. More planes of various sizes slept near boarding ramps and hangers. Luggage from an abandoned baggage cart had sprung open sending tshirts and underwear across the grounds.

Trevor’s team drove to a hanger on the south side of the airport where two army deuce and a half cargo trucks stood. Several crates lay outside the trucks as if they were in the process of unloading when something interrupted their work, yet no bodies or signs of conflict.

The convoy halted and people poured out. Trevor sent K9s swarming into the hanger while Woody Ross and Shep inspected the army trucks.

Nina jogged to the front of the hanger. In the distance, beyond the tarmac, lay open air and a magnificent view of a mountain range. As beautiful as that view was, it was not nearly as beautiful—to Nina—as what waited in front of the hanger.

“Jackpot.”

*

Jon rolled the hand truck full of ordnance from the hanger.

“Careful with that,” Nina Forest advised as she examined the pilot’s helmet in her hands.

In front of the hanger sat two Apache attack helicopters in near-perfect condition, having been armed, maintained, and fueled before their unit disbanded.

What had happened to that unit they may never know. Nonetheless, two of the military’s most effective close-support craft were theirs for the taking, and Nina Forest could fly them.

During her stint in the National Guard, Nina was primarily restricted to flying Blackhawk transports but she had experience with Apaches, too, because her commanding officer had been impressed by her instincts and wanted to see how she handled those birds-of-prey (he also drooled over how she looked in a flight suit).

She handled them quite well but army protocol did not allow her to fly them in combat. Instead, she trained for and flew several ferry missions.

Apache helicopters have two seats with the front cockpit earmarked for the gunner and the back for the pilot. However, both cockpits offer redundant controls, making it possible to either fly or shoot or both from either position.

The Apaches were not the only prize. The day’s lucky strike included a topped-off tanker truck full of aviation fuel.

Nina did not need to consult with their ‘leader’ to know the best course of action: she would fly one of the choppers to the estate and the ground team could drive the tanker home.

Nothing to it.

Rockets and chain gun rounds presented a bigger issue. A fair supply existed at the hanger, but the local police station or even the 109th Field Artillery armory in Kingston would not have that type of ordnance on hand. They would need to use the Hellfires sparingly.

“Okay,” she announced to everyone in earshot. “I guess I’ll fly one now and then we can come back tomorrow for the other one.”

A voice suggested, “Why not take both?”

Trevor Stone strolled casually from the shadowed confines of the hanger. He wore a flight suit and helmet.

*

“This isn’t a game,” her voice crackled over the headset as Trevor punched ignition switches for the main rotor. “Seriously. You don’t need to impress—”

“Hey, Forest,” Trevor transmitted. “Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

He could hear her growl over the mic.

The rotors spun to full power. He worked the pedals and stick.

The first Apache, with Trevor at the helm, lifted off the tarmac. The second followed.

Jon Brewer gaped as the helicopters rose above the hanger then banked to the southwest. The deep thump-thump-thump of the helicopter blades echoed over the plateau and bounced off the picturesque mountain range.

Stonewall—standing next to Jon—said, “I was not aware that Mister Stone had experience with such machines.”

Jon muttered, “Wow.”

Trevor’s revelation that he could fly the Apache shocked Jon even more so than Nina. He knew what Trevor would tell him: the same thing he told him when he asked where Trev had learned how to shoot and clean an assault rifle; where did he learned tactical hand signals; where had he learned how to fix generators.

I just picked it up.

Jon shook away his disbelief and gathered the ground convoy together including the new, fully loaded fuel truck. The time had come to return home.

*

Nina glared through the cockpit window at the other helicopter, her gaze nearly violent enough to knock Trevor’s Apache from the air.

As for Trevor, he sat in the pilot’s seat, amazed. Everything on the control panel appeared familiar to him. He knew the purpose of each button.

Yes, there, counter-measures. Okay and those are the fire suppression systems. Oh yeah, that button activates the targeting controls linked directly to the helmet.

Radar? Clear. Orientation? Slightly banked but hey, no one is perfect.

But the lighter-than-air feeling…

He snickered.

Lighter than air in such a heavy machine? Silly sounding, but true. The beast, as massive as it felt, glided through the sky above the highway as if hanging from an invisible rope.

He glanced down at the world. The homes and the buildings all looked small and fake, conjuring memories of the train table in his grandpa’s basement; the one with the Lionel engines and blinking RR crossing signs.

Trevor suddenly felt lightheaded. The orange and red trees of autumn, the houses, the highway…they faded…

…desert, flat and featureless stretching as far as he could see. Plumes of thick black smoke rising from the horizon and filling the sky ahead, blocking the sun in an oily veil.

Below him, a burning hulk in the desert. He knew that hulk had been a T-72M1 tank. He knew it had been a part of the Medina Republican Guard Division. He also knew it burned from the Hellfire missile he had put into its hull.

The radio crackled with the conversation of others.

“C2 this is ‘Venerable’, ah, we need some support over here.”

“Ah, Roger that, two Ghostriders en route to your location now…going red in two minutes…”

Trevor’s dizziness dissolved. The desert disappeared and he saw the towns, forests, and roads of northeast Pennsylvania again.

Nina’s voice spoke from his radio headset, “Are you going to tell me where you learned to fly helicopters?”

He smiled to himself.

“I just picked it up.”

*

The two Apaches swooped in low over the lake and banked hard as they arrowed for the estate. The mechanical whirl of the turbojets and the heavy pounding of the rotors echoed across the water basin.

“Well this changes things,” Trevor radioed Nina.

He could still feel her eyes—sharper than the laser targeting mechanism—on his chopper.

She grumbled, “The convoy should be back here in twenty minutes or so.”

Trevor beamed. What a glorious day for humanity’s comeback!

“I’ll land on the helipad next to the mansion; you go to the fields to the west. Wait until every…one…sees…”

Trevor’s voice drifted and he shivered in his flight suit.

Bodies lay strewn in front of the mansion porch and around the driveway.

“Oh shit.”

“What?” But Nina saw.

He commanded, “Put down at the crossroads by the church, I’m landing on the pad. Rally at the main entrance.”

“Roger that.”

The choppers split.

Stone landed his ride with a quick, heavy thud. He opened the canopy and retrieved his M4 then jogged along the driveway with his head on a swivel. He desperately wanted to start searching but first he had to meet Nina.

On the way to the main gate, he spied a dead German Shepherd and two killed Rottweilers. Primitive arrows had pierced one of the dead dogs. The other two showed massive stabbing traumas from knives or spears.

The K9s were not the only dead things on the lawn.

Trevor found the corpses of humanoid hostiles with bodies similar to man. They wore clothing made of animal hides and woven plants. The tribesmen had pale skin, elongated fingers and not one trace of body hair. Near the dead aliens lay bows and arrows, knives made of wood, and heavy clubs.

Trevor did not stop until he reached the main gate. Nina, her Apache parked near the church, joined him.

Facing the unknown together forced the two to act in unison, with no wasted words and no stray thoughts. Trevor ordered that they secure the ‘barn’ behind the mansion first. She followed his orders without question.

There, at the nest egg of the K9s, they found two dead Dobermans but twice that number in chewed attackers. The K9s had held the barn, keeping safe the pups and mothers-to-be.

Stone dispatched two Greyhounds to the farms with hand-written warnings tucked in their collars. The warnings commanded: ESTATE ATTACKED. HUNKER DOWN UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Trevor and Nina next entered the mansion through the back door. In the main hallway, they found the remains of battle. Bullets had ripped away plaster chunks from walls. Blood from one K9 and three dead tribesmen mixed in pools on the floor. The space there felt warm and musty and a fine dust floated about.

Lori Brewer sat on the floor propped against a wall loosely holding a .357 magnum revolver. The Doberman named Ajax hovered next to Lori, panting.

Stone knelt next to her. She struggled with her breath to make words: “Oh…shit…they just kept coming…I could hear them outside.”

Trevor gave her a quick examination while Nina stood guard. He saw no wounds other than the exhaustion and fear that had caused her collapse.

“I heard shots. I couldn’t get out there ‘cause the god damn dogs wouldn’t let me go.”

Trevor smiled, a little, and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“They were doing their job.”

Trevor turned his attention to Ajax. That dog had no information other than that the house remained secure.

“Stay here. You’ll be safe here. I’ll be back. Jon will be back soon, too.”

Lori nodded. Nina and Trevor went outside, leaving Ajax to keep the mansion safe.

The two checked the apartments above the garage and found Evan Godfrey hiding in his closet. After telling Godfrey to stay put, Trevor led Nina off the estate grounds with the aim of searching the church. Their plans changed when they heard a groan from the dock. There they found two people.

Trevor recognized the first person as hailing from Stonewall’s mortar teams: a chubby fellow with a “Maryland Terrapins” sweatshirt. Blood from a massive gash on the fellow’s neck drenched that sweatshirt. His dead hand held an empty AR-15 rifle. Shell casings from the weapon surrounded the nearby corpses of two primitive attackers.

However, the groan had come from the second person: Sal Corso. He lived, for the moment, despite four arrows driven deep into his body.

Nina helped Sal into a sitting position against the boathouse. His lungs drew his last breaths but Corso’s hand still gripped an empty pistol in the vain hope of continuing the fight.

“What happened?” Nina asked sternly.

Sal coughed blood. “They came out of the—aarrgg—woods…a couple dozen of ‘em.”

He started to fade, then snapped, “Not long after you left… musta been watching…bastardi…”

Nina interrogated in an unyielding voice: “What’s the status here? Casualties?”

Sal spoke before her questions finished. He might not have heard her at all.

“They…they left…oh Christ, this hurts …I think there’s still a bunch of our people hold up in the church…awwwggg…I dunno ‘bout mansion…they were all over us…”

Suddenly his eyes widened as much as a dying man’s eyes can widen.

“Sheila…they took Sheila.”

Fury

Sixty minutes later, Trevor convened a meeting in the Command Center on the second floor of the mansion. Nearly everyone who lived within walking distance, including those who had been a part of the airport convoy, crowded into the room. Stonewall entered last.

“We think they’re gone,” Trevor said but he could not be sure; with the bulk of his Grenadiers still on their mission to the north, he could not dispatch scouts. “Before Sal died he told us they’d been gone for about an hour but—”

“Frank Dorrance.”

Stonewall’s voice derailed Trevor’s thought.

“What’s that?”

“His name,” Stonewall explained. “Most of you were already well acquainted with Mr. Corso. Frank had not yet had the pleasure to become better known in our community.”

“I see,” Trevor said, but he did not.

“Frank lost two children back in June. I met him outside of Martinsburg, West Virginia.”

“West Virginia?” Trevor repeated. “I thought he was from Maryland.”

“Because he wore a Maryland University football shirt. I had the opportunity to learn about the man beyond his favorite sports teams. He was over weight despite two months of near starvation, yet no one worked harder. I saw fit to assign him to a mortar team.”

Woody Ross recalled, “He did a man’s job at the battle of Harper Tavern.”

“I see,” Trevor said again.

“I thought you should know the names of those who died under your command.”

Nina changed the conversation: “Let’s get the choppers in the air.”

Stonewall had more to say on a different subject. “She’s probably still alive.”

“What?” Lori Brewer gasped from across the room.

Woody “Bear” Ross’ said in his deep voice, “The raiders were from the ‘Tribe of the Red Hand.’ ‘Least that’s what we call em’. They take human slaves.”

Stonewall drawled, “We drew engagements against many of their number during our march. They are what your database would call a ‘primitive and organized’ force. Yes, I believe that would be the description.”

Ross said, “Each will have at least one hand stained red with blood. This is some kind of rank. They look like us ‘cept they have no hair and their eyes are all the same color. “

“Almost ivory in shade,” McAllister said. “I’m sure a physical examination will produce more points of differentiation. I believe the most important information is that they appear to abhor all machinations of our modern, technological society. They fight with primitive weapons and make their encampments in the wild. From what we saw on our journey north, they divide their tribes into a series of smaller camps, spread out but close enough for cooperation on the hunt. You’ll find them in clusters.”

Trevor mulled, “The Tribe of the Red Hand…”

“There’s a good chance Sheila is still alive?” Lori’s loud voice drew attention.

“Yes,” Stonewall agreed. “Although uncooperative or useless prisoners are discarded.”

Useless.

“Nina, get airborne. Make sure these things have left our neighborhood. Don’t go out too far and I don’t want to waste fuel. You got an hour of air time, no more.”

Nina nodded. Trevor barked more orders.

“Jon, organize our people and place sentries. Until the rest of the Grenadiers get back, we need to be vigilante. I want a couple of people with heavy weapons at each of the farms for now, too. The rest of you…well, we have to clean up bodies.”

The group dispersed. Lori Brewer grabbed Trevor’s arm.

“They said she’s probably alive. We should go after her.”

“We don’t have the manpower. I bit off too much today and this is what happened.”

Her face contorted as if she eyed a monster. “You can’t risk anyone for Sheila. Is that it? What if it were me out there? Or Shep? Or Nina? I guess you’re going to decide who’s worth saving and who’s not.”

“Lori, this isn’t about one person. Me, you, or anyone else.”

“You damn well better make it about one person; one person at a time. You want to save humanity? Then start showing some humanity yourself.”

*

While Nina had been flying a fruitless patrol, Trevor helped pile bodies of enemy attackers on to a pick up truck that drove them to a field where the carcasses were burned. In contrast, they would inter Sal Corso and Frank Dorrance in a cemetery not far from the estate.

As for the K9s, Trevor had started a burial ground in the forest for man’s guardians.

In the midst of clean-up duty, the Grenadier war party returned from their mission, during which they slew two large frogs that posed little threat. Their big mission had been a waste.

Conversely, Omar’s team reported initial success in rigging a solar power grid at the new farm. Still, it would take several more days to complete.

Suddenly it hit Trevor that Sal and the Maryland Terrapins guy were the first people to die under his command. That thought stopped his walk right outside of Sheila Evans’ room. He realized he had nearly forgotten about her. He opened the door and stepped inside what had been her private little world.

A mess greeted him: candy bar wrappers, cups, and well-paged glamour magazines on the nightstand, a heap of clothes in front of a full-length mirror.

Sheila had been doing something in here; living some sort of life.

He sat on the bed and found a notebook poking out from beneath a pillow. Sheila had not recorded any dates in the book, but it apparently served as a diary. Trevor read from the pages.

I have not done one of these since eighth grade. Funny how I thought crushes and junior high dances were so important back then. Now I cannot remember what a normal life was.

I try to dream about it when I am awake. I daydream about eating at Milano’s. Sometimes I put on a nice dress and pretend I am going out for a night on the town.

I stole a bottle of wine from the pantry. If Trevor finds out, he will probably kick me out. Sometimes I sit here and sip the wine and I can almost hear the voice on the other side of the table or the questions from the maitre de.

Trevor turned the page.

More people keep coming. I do not think there is room for every one. What happens if the food runs out? They will probably want to get rid of me so there is more for the rest of them.

They act tough with their guns and talking like soldiers. I think they are really scared. I think they are just hiding. But I know that Trevor is not afraid. He does not have any thing to be afraid of. He is the biggest monster of them all. He hates me.

Again, another turn of the page.

I just want to stop being scared. I just want to stop crying every night. Is that too much to ask? No one else cries. Maybe I was not supposed to live through this. Maybe I should just die.

A break in the writing. The ink changed from black to blue giving the impression a significant amount of time elapsed between entries.

I thought I would have bad dreams all the time. But I keep dreaming about when I was a little girl. When my father would tuck me to bed and pull the covers up to my chin and kiss me on the forehead. I would feel safe. And I knew I belonged there.

I love you daddy. I miss you.

I hate that I do not belong here. I hate being afraid of the monsters and of Trevor and what he might do. He might kick me out.

I just want to be happy. Just for one day. I want my daddy to come and tuck me in and give me a kiss and tell me everything is going to be all right. To tell me that he loves me.

Trevor could not read any more. His rear end slid off the mattress and he fell to the floor.

Oh God, what have I become?

*

Trevor stormed through the woods retracing his steps as best he remembered. He found the faded game trail, not nearly as clear a path as that day in late June.

“Come out! I know you can hear me! I don’t care about the rules!”

“Ah, what’s wrong now? Took a little bloody nose and you be lookin’ to turn and run.”

Trevor swiveled around and saw the Old Man, the campfire, and the white wolf.

“Screw you!”

“I am pretty darned sure I told ya’ not to come lookin’ for me like I’m your high school guidance counselor.”

“What have you done to me? I’m turning into a monster!”

The flames intensified. The Old Man’s eyes widened.

“Monster? I expect you’re right on that, Trevor. Seein’ the ways in which you go blastin’ the baddies. I suppose them things out there, they thinking you a monster. Now ain’t that a hoot? Any-who, Trev, you go thinking that all this was my doing, if that’ll help you sleep the night. But the truth, Trevvy, is that I did nothin’ to you. All this has been down there the whole time, waiting to be let out. Buck up, Trev, you’re a natural born leader, makin’ the hard decisions and whatnot, knowin’ when to sacrifice some to save others. I am mighty pleased.”

Is that who I am? Am I glad that Sheila is gone because I thought her useless?

“No! I’m going to make it right. I’m going to get Sheila back. Even if I have to kill every goddamn thing in my way! Even if I have to…”

…show compassion…make her belong…

“Wow,” the Old Man grinned. “You are hoppin’ mad. A regular fury. You stay angry. Wake up every morn asking you-self, what can I kill today? But Trev, you gotta change the way you doing business. Now that you went and got all these fine folks around you, don’t go rushing in when you got plenty of folks who can die first. I think it’s about time you started—what’s that fancy word?—oh yeah, ‘delegating’ your authority. You still gotta survive.”

Trevor cursed him. Trevor cursed himself, too.

*

A Humvee and a Suburban raced along a country road avoiding a fallen tree, a flipped garbage truck, and scaring away a six-legged fury red thing resembling a dog-sized anteater.

“Faster, faster,” Trevor insisted from the passenger seat in the Suburban.

As had been the case all morning, Trevor’s eyes burned red and he growled words. His hands fidgeted constantly and he spoke in sharp, machinegun-like bursts.

Now he focused his boiling emotions to action. Thirty minutes ago Nina, during airborne patrol, spotted a group of people on Route 11 about twelve miles from the lake and half that distance north of Wilkes-Barre. He knew the odds that the group might be Red Hands with Sheila were remote, but he could not pass any chance to avenge yesterday’s raid on the estate.

According to Nina’s last sighting, the group approached a small town along the western bank of the Susquehanna.

Trevor’s team included himself, Jon Brewer, and six K9s in the Suburban. Stonewall McAllister, “Bear” Ross, and Dustin McBride (the ‘Second Brigade’ leader) rode in the Humvee.

The cars turned onto Route 92 and headed east under a sullen dull blanket of cloud cover threatening rain. They passed isolated homes and trailers. Shadows moved on the edge of the forest and around those dwellings but time did not allow for investigation.

Ahead of them lay the small town of West Pittston, founded in the mid-1800s as a result of the anthracite boom. The 1959 Knox Mine disaster flooded shafts, entombed workers, and left the town with no more mines but a host of mom and pop shops, a strip mall, a convenience mart, and two bridges crossing the Susquehanna into the mirror town of just plain old ‘Pittston.’

Massive Oaks lined the riverbanks while home styles ranging from colonial to modern, from rich to poor, lined the streets. Armageddon made them all the same: empty.

They came to an intersection where Rt. 92 met Rt. 11. The latter approached from the south, merged with 92, and then went east across the river via a concrete bridge. Homes, a small shop, and big trees surrounded the junction while a tangle of destroyed cars cluttered the roads.

A group of ten human beings stood together near the bridge. One of them held the attention of the rest. He wore black clothes and carried something in his hand.

The Suburban halted at the edge of the intersection behind the remains of a chain-reaction crash leftover from last summer.

Trevor eyed the group as he exited the SUV. His first impression suggested a holy man gathering his flock, although that flock seemed lethargic, as if they might be sleepwalkers.

This group did not appear related to the Red Hand tribe who abducted Sheila. Still, so many people in one place presented an opportunity to collect more survivors.

“Hello! Hello!” Trevor waved toward the crowd.

The K9s, including Tyr, held defensive positions next to the transports.

As Trevor crossed the intersection, he sensed something not quite right.

“Help! Help!” A voice cried from the middle of the gang.

The flock parted and the “holy man” approached with open arms.

“Greetings my children!”

Trevor studied the priest as he walked—glided—across the pavement between wrecked cars. The man appeared older, but not old: thin but naturally so, not emaciated. His eyes were the eyes of a fire and brimstone preacher. Or a madman. He held an object, probably a bible.

“Help!” Two of the sleepwalkers shuffled, nearly fell, as they restrained someone.

“Father…what is going on here?”

“Spreading the good word, my son.”

Trevor realized his error. The man did not hold a bible but, rather, a container.

The thin man with fire in his eyes opened the container.

“Come, hear the word of Voggoth and be one with The Order.”

He held aloft a small thing: a slug or a fat worm.

The clergyman reached the creature toward Trevor who instinctively raised his weapon and categorized the preacher as a ‘hostile.’ The missionary anticipated resistance, and he wasn’t quite human.

Four eel-like tentacles slithered forth from the holy man’s neck. Two grabbed the barrel of Trevor’s M4 and twisted it toward the ground. The other two snared Trevor’s throat, choking and pulling him toward the slug-thing.

“Do not resist, my child. Accept the living God.”

A flash of cold steel.

General Stonewall McAllister’s blade severed the vile appendages. The cleric dropped the squirming creature and stumbled backward.

“Heretic! Heretic!”

One of Stonewall’s boots stomped the slug thing wiggling on the pavement. It squealed.

The clergyman, retreating to his flock, shouted angrily, “Sinners! You are beyond salvation! Feel the wrath of the living God!”

Several—but not all—of the sleepwalking humans charged, brandishing crowbars, boards, hammers, and other blunt instruments. Many of them sported large gray and red patches on their faces and arms. Their eyes stared vacantly.

Stonewall calmly suggested, “A further demonstration of our mettle may be in order.”

Trevor coughed and threw the dead tentacles away, then unleashed his ire.

“Shoot them! Shoot all of them!”

A volley of shots let fly from Trevor and his compatriots. The mesmerized flock shimmied and shook awkwardly like newbies in a mosh pit as round after round found their mark, dropping four of the missionary’s flock to the ground.

Trevor surveyed those who remained. Some appeared dazed and confused; as if not quite ready to follow the holy man’s orders…or maybe they would…or maybe not.

Among the remaining flock, he saw the one who had yelled for help: a starved black man in tattered clothes lying in the street. Trevor immediately recognized his old friend, Dante Jones.

“How dare you defile the converted! You shall bend to the hand of Voggoth!”

The clergyman held aloft two fleshy orbs each slightly larger than a softball. He tossed the objects along the road as if bowling. As the balls rolled, they expanded in mass much like a cartoon snowball growing larger as it cascades down a slope.

The objects grew to the size of very large beach balls and stopped rolling. Thin appendages pushed through the surface into the air, bent at some sort of joint, and reached to the ground. They resembled huge Daddy Long-Legs spiders.

“Punish the heretics! Destroy all the non-believers!”

Two horizontal glowing red slits cracked open on the balls like bloody wounds and two rows of smaller circles—almost barrels—popped to the surface as well. Between those two rows of circles emerged a bone-like object that could have been the head of a large drill.

Overall, standing on their creepy thin legs, the beach ball heads hovered some eight feet above the ground.

Trevor fired. Woody fired. Stonewall fired. Jon and Dustin fired. The jolt of impacting bullets pushed against the spider-things, forcing the combination body/head to bob and bounce. Yet the creatures absorbed the bullets as they advanced.

The humans fell back.

Trevor bumped his butt into a burned out Firebird. He turned to run around the coupe. At that moment, the drill-like cone on front of one of the spider-things shot forward. That weapon flew in a straight, hard line and slammed into and through the remains of the Firebird. After a moment, the hose-like tendon holding the drill head retracted into the creature’s face.

Trevor saw the band of converts and their leader drag off Dante.

“No! Dante! No!”

Trevor stopped retreating and prepared to charge. He would NOT let Dante be taken.

Jon Brewer’s strong hands clamped on Trevor’s shoulders. At that moment, the round circles on The Order’s combatants made their purpose known.

They sounded similar to rapid-fire air pistols, absently reminding Trevor of the machinegun BB rifles at the boardwalk in New Jersey; the ones for which you paid $2 for 50 shots in the hope of winning a stuffed animal. The projectiles were small but hard and sharp. The first flurry of shots rippled across a car carcass in pursuit of human targets.

Jon yanked on Trevor’s shoulders to pull him toward the escape vehicles. Their legs intertwined and they stumbled to the ground next to the wreckage of a Jeep Wagoneer.

The lead attacker stopped firing at dead cars, wobbled forward on its spindly legs, then bore down on Trevor and Jon. Its shadow cast a circle of darkness over them.

Two K9s leapt first on the Wagoneer’s hood then on to the face of the monster, rending and tearing with claws and teeth until gravity pulled them off. While the K9s distracted the enemy, Jon tried to get Trevor to safety.

“C’mon,” but Trevor fought against Jon’s grip.

“Dante!”

“We can’t save him!” Jon shouted as “Bear” Ross added his hands to help restrain Trevor.

“Yes! Yes, we can! Damn it! Let go!”

Trevor’s fury nearly provided enough strength to rip free of their gasp, but they managed to haul him off.

The second of the spider-things moved around the flank bypassing many of the burned out cars. Its miniature organic guns fired dozens of pellets into the sides and tires of the Humvee and then the Suburban, immobilizing the getaway cars.

“Sound the retreat, my friends,” Stonewall raised his sword to rally them to his position near the store. “I suggest we commandeer this hard point.”

“Trevor,” Jon re-emphasized as they found temporary cover behind the disabled Suburban. “We have to retreat.”

“You want to run?” Trevor yelled his question.

“Yes, we have to.”

“Like you did at Indiantown! You ran!” Trevor attacked with the truth sensed by him in Jon’s voice weeks before. “You ran long before your unit was wiped out! You left them! Now you want me to do the same! Well I’m done running! I AM GOING…” Trevor pulled out of Bear’s arms and prepared charge. “…TO FIGHT!”

“You’re right,” Jon conceded as they heard a K9’s dying yap. “I ran. They were coming at us and we were being slaughtered and I ran. I was a coward.”

Trevor breathed in heavy, angry heaves

“I ran because I was afraid,” Jon went on in a surprisingly calm voice. “But I’m not going to let you kill yourself because you’re afraid now.”

More K9s charged at the spider-things.

Jon scolded, “You are afraid to keep leading! Because what? You made a mistake yesterday? Every leader makes mistakes!”

Trevor growled, “To Hell with you!”

“Gentlemen,” Stonewall McAllister stuck his head around the corner of the Chevy. “I was wondering if you’d care to join us in a defensive position, or are you planning on dying today?”

“I AM NOT RETREATING!”

The K9s barked and bit and dodged the weapons of the spider things. Tyr darted between the legs of one creature, causing it to twist and nearly topple. Yet the dogs only bought time…the drill-on-a-hose weapon skewered a Husky. Meanwhile, the group of Voggoth converts and their unwilling guest re-assembled by the bridge.

Above the sounds of hissing and popping organic air guns came an engine’s roar then squealing tires. A big, boxy ambulance painted red with a white Christian Cross stenciled on its side ripped around the corner and skidded to a halt in the midst of the battle.

A man surged from the ambulance cab; a stocky black man wearing a leather jacket over a black shirt. His face grim and angry, he looked next of kin to The Order’s clergyman, albeit larger and better armed.

Instead of a box of squirming slugs, the new arrival brandished a cumbersome M240-B heavy machine gun.

His voice boomed as deeply, if not more so, than Woody Ross’. “And the Lord sayeth, look now; I myself am He! There is no god OTHER THAN ME!”

The machine gun sent a concentrated swarm of bullets into a spider-creature. A gooey, sickly, yellow fluid oozed from the wounds and the creature collapsed.

“I am the one who kills and gives life; I am the one who wounds and heals; no one DELIVERS FROM MY POWER!”

The newcomer’s entire body shook as he let fly more metal slugs at the remaining creature. More gooey mess. Another dead demon.

The Order’s cleric directed his followers to attack. The remaining six one-time-humans lumbered forward, some more enthusiastically than others. Dante, discarded for the moment, collapsed. The missionary fled.

Trevor’s idea of charging held new merit. He and his followers rushed the mob and opened fire, downing four of the enemy instantly.

The newcomer from the ambulance discarded his heavy machine gun and produced a .357 Magnum revolver. He too closed on the remaining converts.

“And the Lord says, as surely as I live, I sharpen my flashing sword and begin to CARRY OUT JUSTICE!”

He aimed carefully at one of the minions with sickly blotches and blew away its head.

Trevor pointed his M4 at a woman. She looked clean enough, but had that vacant stare and waved a butcher’s knife.

“No, you fool! That one may still repent!”

Trevor held his fire. The ambulance-driving machinegun-toting fellow holstered his revolver and produced a stun gun. He dodged the sleepwalking woman’s knife, zapped her, and steadied her wobbling body.

“Quickly, friends, move her to the ambulance.”

Stonewall and Dustin obliged while Trevor and Jon raced to Jones.

“Dante, can you hear me?”

Dante—beaten and worn—coughed several times and opened his eyes.

“Do I…do I know you from somewhere?”

*

The machinegun Bible-quoting man went by the name of “Reverend Johnny”. Despite the moniker, Johnny had attended no seminary, preached to no congregation. Instead, he was a successful New England surgeon before the end of the world.

As with them all, the invasion changed Johnny. He waged a crusade against The Order, chasing their missionaries, learning their ways, and wreaking havoc upon Voggoth’s minions.

Johnny explained what he knew of The Order at a meeting in the Command Center on the morning of October 22nd, two days after Sheila Evans’ kidnapping. Stonewall, Shepherd, Nina, Danny Washburn, and Jon Brewer listened.

“They are an abomination upon this Earth. At first, I believed they were a parasitic life form. But now I suspect we are dealing with organic implants that first control the host’s mind then mutate that person into something new, possibly by re-writing their DNA.”

Jon said, “You were able to save a girl yesterday but you killed others. Why?”

“There is time before irreversible assimilation. Sometimes a week, sometimes less. It depends on the individual’s constitution. Once the blotches appear, that person is too far gone. However, before that point using one of The Order’s own chemicals—an enzyme—can destroy the infection. It must be the correct enzyme. There are different batches.”

Stonewall asked, “If I may, what were those gruesome beasts marshaled against us?”

“The Order uses organic technology. All of their facilities and tools are essentially grown. What you saw were biological machines. I call the ones from yesterday ‘Spider Sentries’. The Order’s clergy can deploy them hastily, as you discovered. They have many such demons. Many more horrid and more powerful. Fortunately, The Order does not have a strong presence in this area yet; just missionaries.”

Jon worried, “Our weapons didn’t do much against them.”

“Spider Sentries can absorb damage. Bullets will take them down if you concentrate your assault or utilize fire-based weapons. They don’t like a hot foot, praise the Lord.”

Trevor walked in at a brisk clip saying, “Reverend, you should join us and stop wasting your time on a lone crusade.”

Reverend Johnny widened his eyes and retorted, “That depends. What is it you intend? I have no desire to sit quietly and let Hell’s devils defile God’s green Earth.”

“What do I intend? I intend to kill every creature that does not belong on my world. I will hang their rotting carcasses from signposts as a warning to others that this planet belongs to humanity. I am all out of mercy today.”

Johnny cheered, “Praise the Lord.”

Stone squared his eyes on each of his followers one after another. He burned his determination into them. Nina reluctantly—and even surprising to herself—averted her gaze not unlike a pack member bowing to the authoritative stare of the alpha wolf.

“Two good things came out of yesterday’s battle with The Order,” Trevor explained. “The first, Reverend Johnny has joined us. The second came from Dante Jones.”

Jon asked, “What did he tell you?”

“Dante was picked up by The Order after he escaped the Red Hands. He tells me there are four camps stretching along the Susquehanna banks northward. They have human slaves shuffling between the camps cutting trees, scavenging food, and the like.”

Shepherd joined the conversation: “What about Sheila? Did he spot her?”

“No, but he gave me a general idea of where those camps are. Enough to go after her. We will bring her back to her home. I need someone to lead a rescue team.”

“I’ll do it,” Nina spoke as if it a foregone conclusion. “I figure three others—”

“No.”

The room exploded in silence. Wind brushed across the glass of the windows. Nina’s eyes widened and her mouth hung open.

Trevor’s cold expression did not change but he delighted in her shock. He found some satisfaction in tormenting her; in being cruel to her: punishing her for having the same blackness in her heart that he found in his own.

“What?” She put a stiff finger on the table, “Listen, I’m the best person you got.”

“No you’re not,” Trevor spat the words at her (at himself?). “This is a rescue mission. I want her back alive. When we start killing again, I’ll call for you.”

Her lip stiffened. What flickered behind her eyes? Not anger, no longer shock; not even damaged pride. Something else. Had his words hurt? Had those words punctured her armor?

“Jon.”

“Yes, Trevor?”

“Put together a team. Go get her, Jon…I know you can do this. Bring her home.”

*

Brewer left later that morning with Dustin McBride, Shep, two men from Stonewall’s troop, and nine Grenadiers. According to Dante Jones, the Red Hands lived in four settlements close to the river north of West Pittston, each with a couple dozen tribesmen plus human slaves.

They drove the first part of the trip then waded into the countryside on foot. Early that evening they caught sight of the first camp nestled in a forest clearing a few hundred yards from the river. The team observed the tribe undetected.

The Red Hands’ village included many small dwellings made of stretched animal hides anchored between wooden poles. Two larger buildings—constructed of log beams, thatch, and animal skins—reminded Jon of Indian longhouses and sat near the center of activity.

From a distance, he nearly mistook the Red Hands for storybook versions of the Susquehannock or Seneca tribes that had lived in those parts hundreds of years ago. Closer inspection revealed a nastier race.

Entryways sported trophies of mounted skulls. A fair number of those skulls appeared human. Buckets outside the doorways to the larger buildings contained the blood warriors used to paint rank on their hands.

A rancid smell drifted from a pit in a corner of the village. Using binoculars, Jon saw that the trash there included the gnawed bones of humans who had lost their usefulness.

The useful humans remained locked inside a flimsy open-air pen constructed of wood posts and rope made from vines. Jon counted four ragged people but no sign of Sheila.

He counted eleven warriors armed with daggers and a kind of sword fashioned from branches. Racks of spears and caches of bows waited at various points around the camp.

Several young and old aliens wandered the grounds conversing in a rough alien tongue. Others skinned animals over open flames sending the scent of cooking flesh into the air. Two washed clothes with water from a wooden barrel, three more guarded the village perimeter.

Brewer positioned his fighters around the camp and waited for the right moment, then signaled the snipers. Several pops of gunfire shattered the peace. Sentries dropped and the remaining pale-skinned aliens scrambled for cover and weapons.

A full assault followed. Jon’s team constricted inward from the forest, blazing away with licks of brilliant fire spitting from high-powered rifles as if dragon’s breath.

The Red Hands did not shrink from gunfire. Jon realized they felt no fear of advanced weapons. Indeed, the presence of the modern weaponry angered the aliens. They charged forward with a religious fervor, as if believing their righteousness could overcome firepower.

One of Jon’s team—a bearded fellow who had ridden north with Stonewall—suffered an arrow in the leg. An enemy warrior hacked to death a dog with a hatchet. Nonetheless, the assault turned to victory as K9s tore at throats and bullets felled the Red Hands.

*

When Trevor called for her to fly him in an Apache to the Red Hand camp, Nina did not refuse. She had already decided not to let him see how much his rejection bothered her.

The sun had disappeared behind the horizon but enough of its glimmer remained to keep night at bay for a short while longer. The Apache flew above the treetops, ascending and descending with the contour of the land.

Jon guided them to the camp via tactical radio. She landed the chopper in the middle of the dead village. Jon, his team, and a small group of freed, shell-shocked human slaves waited.

Nina followed Trevor from the Apache and walked behind as Brewer gave his report.

“This one was closer than we thought. From what the captives told us, there are three settlements farther north, but they’re spread out more. Not going to be easy to find.”

The men stopped. Nina stopped with them. Jon pointed toward one of the smaller structures. Trevor turned to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you. You’re a hell of a soldier. I may not have—”

“Trev. It’s okay. Maybe now I have a chance to…to redeem myself.”

“You already have. Now get ready to return to the estate. Your mission is over.”

Jon turned around but Trevor continued forward. Nina hesitantly followed.

Trevor pushed aside the animal skin curtain at the entrance to one of the smaller dwellings. Remnants of a fire smoldered in the middle of the chamber, a hole in the roof allowed strands of lazy smoke to drift away. Sacks wove from plants hung on the walls serving as racks for weapons and tools. Next to the fire lay a wool blanket.

Trevor knelt on both knees and stared. Nina waited for him to speak, to tell her why they had come but she could think of nothing else to do other than kneel alongside him.

He pulled the blanket off the bruised and bloodied body of Sheila Evans, her eyes wide open but seeing nothing…nothing other than whatever pain and suffering she had endured the last hours of her life.

Nina had seen the face of death a thousand times since late June. Sheila’s face now became just another to join Sal’s and a parade of others.

Scott?

She turned to Trevor expecting he would be ready to go. He was not. His lips quivered. His eyes closed. He trembled.

“She just wanted to belong.”

His chance at redemption… his chance to tell her she belonged…gone.

“I’m sorry, Sheila. I’m so sorry…”

Nina watched his misery pour forth. His grief took her by as much surprise as his cold tone had taken her at the meeting that morning. Could this possibly be the same person? So different the emotions. All in one person?

When we start killing again, I’ll call for you.

Stone sobbed alongside the body of Sheila Evans. As Nina watched, she stopped questioning why he acted this way. Instead, she questioned herself. She realized she should do something to comfort a fellow human being, but she did not know what. She didn’t know how.

Nina Forest envied him his remorse. She wondered how it felt.

Red Rain

Lori Brewer walked into the empty basement of the mansion. No one ever lurked in the basement in the mornings, making that a great time to return the DVD her and Jon had kept in their room the last few nights. She stuck it in the video cabinet: waaayyy in the back. As she did, a muscle in her upper leg ached.

Last time we take that DVD. Ouch.

She noticed the armory’s door ajar. Curious as usual, Lori peeked inside.

Nina Forest, dressed in her SWAT outfit with a green army jacket, strolled among the racks of weapons, her eyes glazed in a trance. She drifted a hand over the metal of the guns as if not sure they were real, like a child in a museum filled with wondrous but scary treasures.

“I would recommend the black one; it goes better with the ensemble.”

Her head swiveled around. “Oh, hello, Lori.”

Nina returned her attention to the racks. “I can use every gun in here. Fix a jam, break down and clean…I can do it. I can tell you the muzzle velocity and rate of fire for each one, too.”

Although Lori did not get the impression Nina sought an answer, she pointed out, “You have a skill. A skill that’s pretty important these days.”

“Yeah. Good thing for me the world went to Hell.”

Nina closely inspected one of the assault rifles. Nothing special about that one, it merely happened to be nearest.

“Nina, I want you to know I’m your friend.”

“A friend? I wonder what that really means.”

Lori came back, “You sure are tough.”

“Don’t worry; I’m that way with everyone.”

“I mean on yourself.” Lori let that sink in and then asked, “What is it you’re afraid of?”

Nina stared off at nothing. “I don’t get afraid. I don’t get scared. I don’t get sad.” She considered and added, “But I do get mad and even confused now and then.”

Lori opened her mouth but Nina told her, “I’ve got to go. Trevor has called a meeting. He needs me now; there’s more killing to do.”

*

Four men huddled around a map of northeastern Pennsylvania unfurled on the large desktop: Trevor, Stonewall, Shepherd and Jon. Nina Forest stood two paces in the background with her eyes fixed on the floor, as if she dared not look anywhere else.

Behind them, beyond the glass balcony doors, thick gray clouds blocked out the morning sun, creating a dreariness reinforced by the pitter-patter of rain against the window.

Trevor spoke, “I spent last night interrogating the freed captives.”

“Interrogating?” Shep did not like that word.

“Just like you heard, Jon. Three more camps. Probably stretching up into Wyoming County but all within spitting distance of the river.”

Stonewall suggested, “I propose we send both of those marvelous flying machines to find the camps from the air and—oh, what would be the word?—blast them to smithereens.”

Jon disagreed. “There are human prisoners in those camps. Missiles and Gatling guns are overkill if we’re trying to rescue hostages.”

Trevor said, “I’m not so worried about rescuing. The important thing here is retribution.”

Shepherd did not like that word, either.

“Retribution? Seems to me we might do right by forgetting about them for now. Seems to me they’re far enough away that we just might not hear from them again any time soon.”

“That’s how it may seem to you, Shep, but it seems to me that a bunch of these things came to our house and killed our people. This is an organized enemy. If they get away with this word will spread. Our location will be revealed and others will think us easy targets.”

Jon asked, “So, what are you saying? Send in the choppers and blow everything up?”

“I’m not going to waste rare munitions and fuel on primitives. Besides, the camps won’t be easy to find from the air. No, we need boots on the ground. I need somebody who can track these things; someone who can take a minimal team and do maximum damage.”

I need a killer, Nina heard.

Trevor walked to her. His words seethed with anger. Nina fixed her eyes straight down as Trevor growled in her ear.

“I’m unleashing you, Nina. Do what you need to do. Do it the way you want to do it. I command only one thing: hunt down every Red Hand in our grasp. Wipe them from our planet. Kill them. Every last one of them. No mercy. You are my vengeance. You are my sword.”

Still, she did not look from the floor.

Trevor nodded to the other men and the group left the room leaving her alone. When they were gone, Nina raised her head with her eyes wide open. She looked forward and saw, with total clarity, what she was to do.

*

Nina leapt off the wooded embankment completely surprising the enemy. Two quick three-shot bursts from her Colt M4 killed both Red Hand warriors. The aliens staggered and fell, never having a chance to pull taught their bows.

She glanced in both directions along the wide swath the utility company had cut through the forest so long ago; a path cut to clear passage for massive electrical wires and towers.

Nothing moved under the gray, drizzling sky.

She motioned her arm forward. The woodland came alive. Danny Washburn, Woody “Bear” Ross and Dustin McBride appeared, followed by Odin the Elkhound, six Siberian Huskies, and another five German Shepherds.

Ross and McBride hid the bodies of the Red Hand patrol

She knew the encampment could not be far…

…Nina watched through the telescopic lens on a Heckler & Koch MSG-90 sniper rifle. The cross hairs fell first on a Red Hand warrior slapping around a thin, sickly human prisoner…then on that prisoner…then back again; alien and prisoner shuffled, conspiring to obstruct her aim.

“One…more…second.”

Washburn crouched next to her under the prickly limbs of a bush.

“Hey! They’re too close. Watch what you’re shooting at.”

Three silenced shots whistled from the military sniper rifle. The rounds slammed into the shoulder of the warrior…and through his body into a prisoner.

“Shit! Damn it! Every one move, move, move!”

They rushed down the wooded slopes through a soaking rain into the Red Hand colony with assault weapons blazing. Seven enemy warriors fell in the first moments of battle. Puffs of steam rose as rain droplets splashed on hot gun barrels. Arrows and spears flew. Warriors charged futilely toward the modern weapons.

Nina descended upon the primitives like a vengeful goddess of war slaughtering with precision. At the same time, the Grenadiers closed and attacked working in pairs. They grabbed legs, dodged weapons, pulled the Red Hands to the ground and tore them to pieces. All the tribe–even non-combatants—fell to the iron of guns and the flashing ivory of canine teeth.

As the assault team overran the camp, the Red Hands spitefully slit the throats of slaves, but the speed of the attack saved most of the humans trapped inside the pen.

The entire colony died in minutes.

While the dogs swept the forest for stragglers, Dustin, Bear, and Washburn freed the remaining prisoners and Nina brought fire to the buildings of the village…

…Nina climbed the slope until she came to an open rock face. There, under a cloudy night sky, she assembled a high-powered radio and sent a message home.

Trevor received the message while examining a map on the desktop in the Command Center. A circle represented the camp where Jon had found Sheila. An ‘X’ had been drawn through that circle. As he listened to Nina’s report, Trevor drew another circle. When her report finished, he ‘X’d’ that one, too.

He could nearly smell the smoke from the fires of his revenge…

…In the morning, Nina’s team led the freed human slaves through the wilderness to the nearest major road, Route 187. A heavily armed convoy met them and transported the survivors to the estate on a luxury bus.

Nina Forest and her band continued their mission of destruction…

…The tents, buildings, and slave pen of the second Red Hand settlement rested alongside a small, peaceful stream at the base of a forested valley.

Not long after dusk, the warriors returned carrying home small game hunted in the forest. They turned those kills over to the young and the females for cleaning and cooking.

Meanwhile, the slaves finished the day’s final chore by carting water from the stream to the massive container at the center of the village. They could expect entrails and bones from the cleaned animals as sustenance.

Fires started across the camp, flickering to life below cooking spits. The flames tried to chase away the chill in the air, but the day’s rain lingered like ice carried on the wind.

The Red Hand people collected around those fires, feasting on fresh kills and covered in animal skins while the ruling class of warriors and their Chief gathered in the community hall.

The scrawny human slaves lay in one mass inside the muddy pen, clothed in the remains of business suits and sweatpants, short sleeve summer Tshirts and socks pulled over bloody hands as makeshift mittens. A moan came from the pile of forlorn souls.

A soft pop stayed hidden beneath that moan, the chatter of Red Hands, and the steady trickle of the bubbling brook. Neither warrior nor slave saw the first sentry die.

Another guard walked behind the main lodge. He heard the next pop and felt a warm pain in his chest. His body twisted, fell, and tumbled into the stream with a quiet splash.

Another pop. Then another. Screams erupted as a Red Hand dropped his wooden cup and collapsed face-forward into a campfire.

More pops. More bullets striking tribesmen. The alarm sounded in a series of cries. The Chief and his warriors mustered in the center of the settlement.

No more pops. Nothing moved.

The Red Hands gathered and scanned the surrounding forest. Their ivory eyes saw only shadows, but a noise came to their ears. It started low then rose to a terrifying cacophony echoing around the doomed primitives: a chorus of snarls and barks, of growls and yaps from beasts unseen. Louder…louder…LOUDER!

Warriors gripped their bows and spears tight in sweaty slender fingers. For months the tribe had hunted, enslaved, and killed unarmed men, women, and children. Now they shivered and shook as an unknown enemy stalked them.

A warrior’s chest exploded. The Red Hands scrambled to cover behind buildings and posts and piles of chopped wood.

The sounds of barks and snarls from the woods suddenly stopped, leaving only the gentle roll of the stream in the warriors’ ears.

Arrows flew blindly into the dark: shots of frightened desperation.

On orders from the Chief, four Red Hands approached the perimeter with spears and bows raised. They disappeared, seemingly swallowed by the forest.

A second later, the snarls and barks returned joined by the cries of the four scouts.

The Chief focused on the darkness, hoping to see what haunted his people, to glimpse whatever nightmare this strange world had unleashed.

The snarls and barks stopped again. No more screams. No trace. No sign.

A cold autumn wind gust across the settlement carrying fallen leaves on its wings.

They came.

Flashes like lightning exploded around the camp followed by loud claps not of thunder but of man’s deadly weapons, wielded by a handful of human soldiers and led forward by the icy blue eyes of a blond-haired demon of a woman.

Fast-moving four-legged animals raced in with the humans tearing at legs, leaping and growling as they attacked.

The Chief’s warriors threw spears and fired arrows but the assault poured on them horribly fast. Bows misfired in trembling hands; hastily tossed javelins missed their mark.

The tribe—warriors and more—died one after another, many standing and fighting, others dragged to their death. The humans attacked so viciously that some of the slaves trapped in the pen fell victim to stray bullets but this did not slow the woman and her pack.

The Chief suffered a deadly projectile in his shoulder. He saw one last vision as his life’s blood drained onto the dirt: the human woman with the cold eyes taking embers from the tribe’s fires to the homes of his people. The flames licked to life…

…in the campfire. Woody Ross, Washburn, and the young Dustin McBride warmed themselves in the glow.

The freed slaves had already rendezvoused with the retrieval convoy, the radio transmission long since sent to the estate; no doubt, another ‘X’ marked on Trevor’s map.

The rain had stopped yet no stars shined from beyond the veil of clouds. Nina figured they did not deserve any stars. They did a dirty business. She did not want anyone to see.

She sat away from the radius of the fire against a barren birch tree with Odin at her side. For some reason, the Elkhound had taken a liking to her.

Nina cleaned her rifle. Not because it needed to be cleaned, because she needed to do something. She heard the men speaking around the fire, probably unaware of her presence.

Woody Ross asked, “So what is it you guys miss the most about before ‘all this’?”

Danny Washburn answered first: “Pineapple.”

“Pineapple?” The answer puzzled Ross.

“Yeah. Not the canned shit. I mean real, fresh pineapple.”

Dustin McBride chuckled, “Oh man, that is weak.”

Nina listened. Pineapple?

She could not remember the last time she ate pineapple, even before “all this.”

The former ATF agent joked with McBride, “So what about you, rookie?”

“Man, I’ll show you,” the teenager pulled his wallet from a back pocket and dug through until he found a photograph. Dustin McBride’s wide grin captivated Nina as she watched him share the photo with the men around the fire.

Washburn reacted, “Wow, but ah, ain’t she a little young for a girl friend?”

“Damn, that’s my little sister, g-man. I was raisin’ her like my own. You shoulda heard her playing the piano at school. I tell you, she was going to be something.”

Nina turned her eyes from the fire to her half-assembled rifle. She stared at it for several moments. After a grunt of resolve, she snapped the upper receiver in place, propped the rifle against the tree, and walked to the fire.

Nina wanted to see that picture. She wanted to know why Danny Washburn liked pineapple so much. She wanted to hear what Woody “Bear” Ross missed about his old life.

She stepped into the glow surprising the men and chasing away smiles.

“What’s going on here, guys?” Even as she said it, she realized how it sounded.

The men scattered. Dustin McBride put away the photo before Nina could see.

Washburn muttered, “Oh, yeah, I should be keeping watch out.”

Ross grumbled, “Got a big day ahead of us.”

The three men—thinking her annoyed at their late night chat—left to do things more to her liking such as guard duty and weapons cleaning.

Nina stood alone in the glow of the fire…

…The cross hairs fell on the chest of a Red Hand sentry who refused to stand still as he smacked the posterior of a hunched human teenager tasked with repairing a fence post.

Nina could shoot and…probably…hit only the warrior…but…

Ross and Washburn waited on her flanks observing the final Red Hand settlement from a grassy knoll just as a cloudy new day began. The rain had started during the night again, only to pause a few hours before. Muddy puddles lay scattered throughout the camp while the sky threatened more showers.

She pulled the sniper rifle from her eye.

“What’s wrong?” Washburn whispered.

“It’s too tight in there,” she crawled from the knoll, retreating with the two men to the cover of the woods where she handed the sniper rifle to Bear.

“Listen, I’m going to go in real quiet and take out the guards,” as she spoke Nina removed her camouflaged jacket, rolled her black BDU sleeves, and slung an M4 over her shoulder. “I’m just saying maybe we can take these guys out without losing any of the prisoners. Watch me and come in when the time is right.”

She walked off.

Washburn wondered to Ross, “Since when does that matter?”

Most of the tribe still slept. While one sentry tormented the teenage slave, another patrolled outside a longhouse. The slave pen stood across from that longhouse in the center of the colony, surrounded by the smaller living quarters all atop a muddy field.

Nina waited around the corner of that longhouse. She heard the patroller’s footfalls as he approached. She drew her knife. He casually strolled by her position. She struck from behind, grabbing his chin and raising it in the air laying bare his pale skin. Her sharp blade drew across his throat. He spun toward the ground, spraying red blood from the wound across her like a hose.

Another guard wandered near. Nina gave him her blade too, eviscerating the alien with the point of her weapon plunging into his gut and tearing to the base of his throat. More blood splattered on her. Another pair of dead eyes locked on Nina Forest.

She hurried to secure the holding pen. Two warriors spied her approach and raised bows.

Nina dropped the knife but did not have time to un-sling her rifle. Instead, she speedily drew her nine-millimeter pistol and slew both before they could launch arrows.

The rest of the assault team, including K9s, attacked.

A warrior ran at Nina from behind, his hatchet poised for the kill while her attention focused forward as her pistol sought targets at the center of camp. Odin pounced, knocking the Red Hand and his hatchet to the ground where canine teeth did their painful work.

A tribesman raced out from a shelter.

Nina pulled the trigger. An empty shell casing discharged from the ejector port and a new round loaded.

An elderly female staggered into the morning gloom struggling to put on an animal skin.

A bullet from Nina’s gun found her.

Her marksman’s eyes did not distinguish targets; it only found them. Hostile or friendly with no ground between.

Another empty casing dropped to the mud.

The trigger pulled again. A younger victim fell.

The trigger pulled again. And again.

The bullets found the back of a fleeing female running for the wilderness.

Another shot. And another still…

…The butt of Nina’s rifle smashed the latch and the pen gate swung open. A terrified woman huddled with her young child on the ground inside the jail. Nina extended her hand.

“It’s okay. I’m human, like you.”

They flinched from her reach.

Nina did not know why they would do that. She wanted to rescue them; to let them fall into her arms and see her as their liberator. She wanted to comfort them and tell them that everything would be okay now.

Then Nina saw her own outstretched hand; a hand soaked in crimson blood. The blood of her enemies. The blood of her victims.

Her hands…her face…her body covered in the gore of those she slaughtered.

Bear gently grabbed Nina’s shoulders and moved her aside so that he, Washburn, and McBride could evacuate the slaves. Nina staggered away with her eyes wide open in wonder.

The Grenadiers raced across the scene hunting for stragglers, but the assault team had done a thorough job. Nothing remained of the tribe.

She stopped at the rim of a large puddle. Behind her, the others comforted and led away the emancipated slaves.

Nina felt a light tap on her forehead.

Her eyelids fluttered as raindrops began to fall. She could hear the tip-tip-tip of sprinkles splashing the ground among the empty buildings and carnage of the now-dead colony.

Nina stared at her arms. The rain drenched her skin but instead of washing away the mess, her arms seemingly grew redder.

She collapsed to a knee. Her knees splashed in the puddle. She could not pull her eyes from her gore-covered hands as the rain intensified to a downpour.

The blood clung to her.

Is this all there is? Is there nothing more?

Revelations

“Come in my friend,” Omar welcomed Trevor inside with a big fake smile.

Omar’s workshop was once a climate-controlled garage on the southeast side of the lake. Workbenches, cabinets, and tools cluttered the place now instead of Ferraris. A mix of smells ranging from acidic to fishy floated in the air. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling.

“And what is it I can do for Mr. Trevor today?”

“Just checking up on things.”

Omar responded with his typical sarcasm and overdone accent. “Oh how splendid! Thank you for checking up on things over here right now with me.”

Several days had elapsed since Nina eliminated the Red Hands from northeastern Pennsylvania. Trevor’s attention turned from revenge to the future. The goodies in Omar’s work shop would be a key part of that future: four Mutant hover bikes, twelve platypus rifles as well as a quantity of those same aliens’ glowing ping-pong-ball grenades, and a variety of other gizmos that lacked labels, definitions, or any modicum of understanding.

Trevor motioned around the garage and asked, “Tell me, what do you need to better understand these things? I mean, we have to be able to adapt some of this stuff some how.”

Omar lit a smoke with a match. He waved the fire out then dropped the match to the floor, despite the highly explosive materials nearby.

“I would be needing more time and more people.”

Trevor wondered how much time they had before something particularly nasty found them. As for manpower, he did not need to explain the difficulty in finding highly skilled engineers, technicians, and researchers.

“Well then, you get to work, don’t let me stop you.”

Trevor patted Omar’s shoulder and headed for the exit.

“How inspiring! I shall endeavor to work with twice the haste.”

*

Lori Brewer filled the trough with dog food. Hungry K9s hurried across the barn and dove their snouts in. One Rottweiler ignored the food and stood close to her.

“Oh, what a good little doggie you are,” she scratched his head knowing that this ‘good little doggie’ had probably mauled, torn, or otherwise disemboweled its share of creatures.

Nina Forest walked by the open barn doors. Her steps crunched on the drying red and gold petals falling all around the estate; their syrupy smell of decay drifted in the air.

She saw Lori, stopped, and took a tentative step inside the barn.

“Hey,” Nina meekly greeted.

Lori suppressed her surprise over Nina instigating a conversation and said, “Hi. Have you met this good little doggie? He’s such a good little doggie.”

“Doggie? Trevor wouldn’t approve.”

“Oh, screw him,” Lori laughed.

Nina almost—almost—smiled.

“So whatchya up to? Target practice?” Lori guessed based on the collection of rifles and pistols slung and strapped to her person.

“Got to stay sharp, you know?”

“Sure,” Lori nodded.

Nina said, “Thank you.”

“Huh?”

Nina tapped her head recalling the gesture Lori made the first time they had spoke. “For fixing me up after they found me. You’re right; there are some words I have trouble with.”

Lori contained her shock as best she could.

“You’re welcome.”

After several seconds of awkward silence, Nina stepped away.

“You did a heck of job taking out those camps I hear,” Lori’s words stopped Nina.

“Oh. That. Yeah. Nothing to it. Hey, it’s my skill, right?”

“I also heard how Trevor treated you when he sent you off. He was being a jerk.”

Nina said, “Your husband tells you a lot, huh?”

“Sure. It’s what friends do. They tell each other things. If you don’t talk to someone things can really eat you up inside. That doesn’t do anyone any good.”

“I suppose so,” Nina paused, considered, then observed, “You and Jon, you seem to get along real good.”

Lori chuckled. “Get along real good? Well, I suppose I make him realize he can be an asshole. He makes me realize I can be a stubborn, nosey bitch. It evens out.”

“Nice fit, I guess,” Nina sort of smiled.

“What about you, Nina? How did you end up with the police? Where are you from?”

The quick questions staggered the girl.

“See—nosey bitch. Guess my husband is right.”

Nina shrugged.

“I grew up in Kutztown. My parents worked at the University there. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“And here I thought you were a city girl.”

“Not me, no. Not until I signed on to the Philly PD.”

“See that,” Lori said, “look at the things we find out just by talking.”

“I guess. Say, you’ve known Trevor for a long time. What was he like before all this?”

“Trevor? Nah, I didn’t know ‘Trevor’ before. I knew Richard Stone.”

Nina’s head tilted. “Richard?”

“Before the world went up in smoke, he was Richard. Sometimes ‘Dick.’ His middle name is Trevor. That’s what everyone calls him now, seeing how different he is these days.”

“Different?”

“Well, yeah,” Lori spoke as though it should be obvious. “I mean, who isn’t different after everything that has happened?”

Nina fidgeted but did not respond.

“But you know what? I don’t think he so much changed as he found something from inside. I mean, he was always a nice guy. A smart guy, sort of. Never really pushed himself; did what he had to do to get by. I always thought he could do better, at a lot of things in life.”

Lori did not say that Richard Stone could damn well have picked a better girl to want to marry but Lori did not want to mention Ashley. Certainly not to Nina. After all, Ashley had never asked Lori anything about her and Jon. Already Nina asked, and the girl did not even realize her interest in Trevor. Or, at least, she refused to admit it.

Lori heard—in her mind— her husband imploring her to ‘stay out of it’. As usual, she ignored him.

“Take his job: here’s a smart guy with a college degree and he was a car salesman.”

“A car…salesman?”

“I know, funny isn’t it? The guy who’s leading the fight to save humanity sold Chevys before all this. I bet if you asked Trevor back then, he’d tell you he would be selling cars for the rest of his life. Probably thought it was the only thing he knew how to do. Yet here we are and he found a lot more inside of him than he thought was there. Don’t you think?”

Nina absently nodded. Lori could not tell if the girl heard the message or grew bored.

The counselor finished, “Goes to show you, doesn’t it? You don’t know what you’re capable of if you go around afraid to take chances.”

The wind rustled a herd of dried leaves. More of that syrupy smell carried through the air.

Nina said, “I guess you do learn something new every day,” and she turned to leave.

Lori thought up something quick: “I could use help with my shooting. Maybe I could take target practice with you next time?”

“Sure. Nothing to it.”

Crunches and snaps underfoot announced Trevor Stone’s approach.

Lori saw Nina’s eyes look anywhere but at Trevor. She also saw him do the same.

Nina said, “Well, I got to go,” and moved off at a quick pace.

Lori sighed.

Trevor arrived and said, “I didn’t know you two were such good friends.”

“You’re just not very observant. A lot of things get by you these days.”

Then Lori punched him in the shoulder.

“What was that for?”

“I heard how you sent her on that mission. You-are-my-sword. What kind of shit is that?”

“That was serious. Besides, Nina lives for that kind of stuff.”

“No, she thinks she lives for that kind of stuff. She thinks there’s nothing for her but shooting and killing. Look at her.”

They watched Nina walk by herself toward the front grounds. She was no lumbering warrior but a petite blond girl hiding curly hair in a short ponytail to avoid any hint of style. She plodded along as if trying to go unnoticed.

Lori said, “She’s just a lonely little girl.”

“That little girl is the best soldier we’ve got.”

“Great, but she’s also a person. Giving her orders like that, what does that do? It tells her that no one thinks of her as anything but a killer. That maybe you only think of her as a killer.”

“I have to think about…I mean, she’s the best soldier we’ve got and I need her to—”

Lori turned her back to him and walked away from the barn calling, “Keep it up, Dick.”

“Hey! That’s not my name anymore.”

Lori waved her hand dismissively. “I was using it as an adjective.”

*

Two weeks past without incident, yet a feeling of unease remained: the Red Hand raid had shaken any feeling of security or isolation.

During those two weeks, patrols found another eight people scattered throughout the outlying neighborhoods of the valley. They added to the sixteen people Nina’s Red Hand raids had liberated and thus grew the community significantly. However, two of the prisoners rescued from the Red Hand tribe died. One, an elderly woman, succumbed to what Reverend Johnny diagnosed as a respiratory infection. The other, a middle-aged man, could not overcome the internal wounds inflicted by his captors.

The remaining newcomers included young and old, men and women, and a cross section of ethnic ancestries. They occupied more houses along the rim of the lake, most relying on candles and wood-burning fireplaces for light and heat.

A scouting party led by Jon Brewer found a floral nursery a few miles away. Anita Nehru and a group of volunteers converted the space into vegetable gardens. Of course, the lake and streams provided catfish and trout while deer and wild turkey fell to human and K9 hunters.

Dante ran a fever for the better part of a week but eventually recovered. Reverend Johnny proclaimed the man free of any of The Order’s implants.

Tooth aches and vision problems arose, each solved with either home made remedies (such as pliers) or by raiding a dentist or optometrist’s office.

Just before nightfall on November 14th, a squall of flurries blew through and coated the ground in a glaze of white snowflakes.

*

It had not moved all day, hiding its small body in the underbrush and shadows of trees.

It followed the signal ingrained into the fabric of its being. It existed for one purpose. Moving too quickly would jeopardize that purpose. The clever creatures nearly caught its scent twice in recent days. Fortunately, the wind had changed at the right moment.

Night fell again. The small, three-legged creature rose from under a blanket of fallen leaves and powdery snow moving…oh…so…slowly…through the forest.

To fulfill its purpose.

*

Trevor spent hours on his laptop adjusting the ‘hostiles database’ derived from information brought by newcomers, including Stonewall and liberated Red Hand slaves.

Some of that information proved useful: “Yes, I saw it eat only eyeballs.”

Some less so: “I’d say it was round, and purple. Sort of like a square. Oh yeah, with orange things coming out of its sides.”

His stomach grumbled, echoing through the library-turned-Command Center. The noise served as Trevor’s cue to call it a night, after a quick stop at the pantry.

He closed his computer, clicked off the desk lamp, and walked from the room. He tried to put everything aside, but thoughts ricocheted.

The lack of medical supplies…the looming fuel shortage come spring…

Nina.

…the need for more heavy weapons…Omar’s lack of support staff…

Lori and Nina have been spending time together. I wonder what they’re talking about.

As he came to the stairs, he noticed the door to one of the many second-floor guestrooms standing slightly ajar and a soft light eking out from within. Trevor knocked lightly and entered, finding Dante Jones sitting in bed playing solitaire.

Dante grunted and brushed the cards away.

“Losing again?”

“Yeah, man, I suck at this.”

“Solitaire?”

“Sitting around.”

“Oh,” Trevor said. “Well you were sick and starving, remember?”

“Rich—I mean, Trevor—it’s been three weeks. The most I’ve done is carry firewood or clean up the mess hall. I want to do something.”

“You mean, like carry a gun and shoot things?”

“Damn straight, buddy. I’ve been target shooting. I’m ready.”

“Okay then, I’ll get you out on some patrols. See what you’re made of.”

Jones smiled but it looked painful. “See what I’m made of? Listen to you. Man, the last time I saw you, you were talking about going to work selling cars while the world was falling apart. Now look at you.”

“This must be tough for you, seeing me changed so much.”

“Guess I just have to get used to it,” Dante tried to sound lighthearted, but came up short.

Ajax the Doberman scrambled to the door and stared at Trevor who, after a moment, told Dante, “They’ve found something outside. Come on.”

*

The dream shocked Nina awake. She sat in bed surrounded by darkness, sweat soaking through her oversized nightshirt. Her chest heaved in and out.

She remembered what had happened to Scott after the helicopter crash. She had witnessed it all. Scott had been murdered in cold blood.

Her mind raced as she recounted the images in her head. Not a dream, but a memory. A memory and a…a…a feeling.

Someone had murdered her…her… fiancé.

The man she loved.

Scott.

Confusion…muddled thoughts…but one thing cut through it all: Rage. Absolute, unequivocal, unstoppable.

A whisper inside warned, Wait! Stop!

That whisper disappeared; a drop smothered by a flood of hatred and anger.

She must have blood.

And there…the answer…resting in the corner: her Heckler & Koch sniper rifle.

Nina lit the candle next to her bed, pulled on a t-shirt, jeans, and a camouflage jacket, then grabbed the rifle. She threw open the apartment door and walked onto the small landing outside. Attached steps descended from there to the driveway. Flurries drifted in a solitary flood light that painted a glowing circle over the coating of thin white snow on the driveway.

Voices. Nina froze like a predator catching scent of prey.

She heard his voice. Then movement—shadows—by the estate’s fence, fifty yards away.

Nina glanced over her shoulder at the gently angled roof. She slung her weapon and climbed to better killing ground.

*

Tyr, Ajax, and three Doberman sentries gathered with Trevor and Dante amidst the trees along the perimeter fence. Drifting flakes floated aimlessly around them.

The sentries had killed something, as evident by the gore on their snouts.

Glowing flashlights announced the approach of Reverend Johnny and Jon Brewer.

Trevor asked, “What do you make of this, Reverend?”

Beams found the remains of a green creature with three legs and a mushroom shaped body. It had stood three feet tall before the dogs tore it into two pieces.

Johnny—shivering in his leather jacket—said, “Dear Lord, what abomination has visited us this evening?”

Trevor told them, “According to the sentries, the top part was glowing when they found the thing. Still, no harm done. The Grenadiers got a hold of it before it could get around the fence. It didn’t put up a fight.”

Brewer threw in his thoughts: “Wow, ugly little thing, ain’t it?”

Johnny stared at the carcass and said, “I’ll indulge my curiosity and do an autopsy on our interloper.”

The men stood about unaware that night-vision-aided crosshairs targeted the group, falling first on Dante Jones.

Nina blinked and moved the target away from that man. He was not the murderer. She knew who the murder was. She had seen him do it. She had a clear memory now.

The crosshairs fell on Trevor Stone.

Nina’s finger felt the cold of the trigger. Her heart beat in anticipation of killing the bastard-Stop! No!-who had murdered the man she planned to marry.

Her rage was absolute…it could not be satiated without blood, it—

She eased her trigger finger and rested the sniper rifle.

“No,” she spoke to herself. “No, this is too good for you.”

An idea came to mind. An idea so perfect for vengeance that she wondered why she had not thought of it before.

I hate you Trevor Stone. I’m going to make sure you pay for killing my lover.

Betrayal

Trevor walked into the church basement.

Two teenage sisters worked behind the counter serving breakfast. Dustin McBride had painted a colorful caricature of Sal Corso in a chef’s hat stirring a pot on one of the kitchen walls. His artistic talents came from years of spray-painting tags for the “D.C. Boys.”

Trevor crossed the hall to the counter, scanning every seat as he moved.

Dante Jones and Evan Godfrey conversed at a table. Two middle-aged men also dined in the hall but he did not know their names. While that made him feel guilty, he also thought it a good sign that the community grew at such a pace he could not keep track of names.

However, his eyes did not find what he truly sought: Nina. He felt a pang of disappointment.

As he moved toward the counter, Trevor overhead Evan Godfrey preaching to Dante.

“I’m saying this is a great chance to do things right this time. We can make changes so we don’t repeat the mistakes the Founding Fathers made.”

“You mean, like having slavery when all men were supposed to be equal?”

“Yeah, sure, of course. But I’m talking about a functioning society where there’s true social and economic equality. No one is left out.”

Trevor could not decide if Dante bought Godfrey’s gobbledygook or if he merely played a game, something he was apt to do.

“That sounds beautiful, man. So, like, universal health care and a chicken in every pot.”

Godfrey said, “I’m talking about a government that ensures the people live as one with the environment, that balances the needs of the individual with the bigger needs of the entire nation, that reflects the moral standards of the community.”

As Trevor waited at the counter for eggs and bacon he pulled his mental file on Evan Godfrey, remembering that Godfrey—a man a few years shy of his thirtieth birthday—was nearly shot by Nina during his ‘rescue.’ After, Evan retreated to an apartment above the garage. Recently, he started venturing forth and contributing.

More specifically, Evan worked with Kristy Kaufman and Lori following up with new residents, procuring items such as medicines, dietary supplements, and such. From what Trevor heard, if a person needed something Evan Godfrey found a way to get it.

Trevor realized that the estate—the community—required people like Evan. Nonetheless, as he listened, Trevor felt Godfrey needed a dose of reality.

“As we get bigger we have to establish electoral zones to create a representative government. Of course, there will have to be steps taken to ensure that we do not become divided by regional issues. You can’t have regional interests outweighing the overall good.”

Trevor sat at the table where Evan and Dante planned the future of humanity.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Mind if I join you?”

Evan welcomed, “No, no, of course not.”

Dante asked, “You figure out what that thing was we found last night?”

“Not yet,” Trevor said. “Johnny is doing an examination.”

Trevor turned his attention to Evan and, taking pains not to sound confrontational, said, “I couldn’t help but overhear your speech. Sounded like a politician.”

Evan proudly answered, “I’ve worked on a few campaigns and was in the middle of earning a Masters degree in Political Science when everything changed.”

“Yeah,” Dante said. “He’s got some good ideas. You should listen to him.”

Trevor spotted a glint in his friend’s eye. Dante loved to run experiments on human nature by letting the cars crash together and see what happened.

“Well, let’s hear your ideas, Evan.”

Godfrey smiled, his eyes widened, and the ideas flowed forth.

“We have a chance to rebuild government and avoid past mistakes. Here’s a chance for us to create the perfect governing body and social structure.”

“I see.”

“The key is making sure that the common good is the focus. We need a strong central government that assures equal access to things like health care, education, and business opportunities. If we create a governing body of elected representatives now, we can lay a foundation to build a political structure that really serves the needs of the whole of society.”

Trevor shoved breakfast into his mouth and spoke as he chewed, “I see you were well on your way to that Masters degree in Political Science. I bet you have all the bases covered.”

Evan smiled smugly.

“I can provide a written proposal.”

“All the bases, except for one tinsy-wheenie oversight.”

Godfrey leaned forward, “Oh? What’s that?”

Trevor grew deadly serious. Nasty, even.

“The real world. Do you hear yourself? Health care? Education? Business opportunities? Are you kidding me?”

Godfrey drew back and blinked as if slapped. Dante laughed.

“I’ll bet you got straight A’s in political science but guess what, all the politicians are dead. The world you spent your life getting ready for is gone. I thought you would have learned that when a couple of aliens nearly had you for dinner.”

Evan tried to interject: “I know that but we have—”

“The only health care you have to worry about is battlefield medicine. From this day forward, education is as much about the target range as it is A-B-Cs. Job opportunities? Sure, we’ll need foot soldiers, pilots, and artillerymen.”

Trevor tapped the table and locked his eyes on Godfrey who shrunk in his seat.

“You need to understand something that may save your life and the lives of people around you. The old games of politics and business deals on the golf course are done. We are at war. When I say ‘we’ I mean every man, woman and child. We are at war for survival. As a species. Billions of people around this planet have been slaughtered. We have no time for social structures and governments. I’m sorry, Evan, but all that time you spent lining up your political ducks was wasted. Welcome back to the stone age.”

Godfrey found the strength to object. “So, what do we do? We just go along without a bureaucracy? If the estate continues to grow, it will become a city, then a state, and then a nation. The people have no say? It will all be led by Trevor Stone?”

“The bureaucracy you love so much failed us when Armageddon came. It sputtered, jammed, and fell apart like the big broken machine it was.”

“But who will govern? What happened to democracy?”

“Democracy is a luxury we cannot afford. There is only one purpose for our lives from this moment until the end: To fight. The children born today are tomorrow’s soldiers. If that’s not enough, then our children’s children will take up arms and fight! We will kill every damned creature that does not belong on our planet. It will take decades; maybe centuries.”

“That’s all I have to look forward to? War and fighting? That’s not a life worth living.”

Trevor said, “It’s the debt you owe everyone who came before us. If we fail, then everything humanity ever was or ever could be is gone. We fight until we win or die trying.”

Dante broke in, “So, the handful of us who live here are going to re-take the world?”

“Don’t be an ass, Dante. We fight and expand. We do it smart, we do it slow. We find more survivors. We improve our food and weapons. Eventually we build industry. Don’t worry; there will be musicians to entertain the troops and playwrights to take the peoples’ minds off the horrors for a while. But it will all be about war.”

Godfrey sneered, “And Trevor Stone, what a terrible burden to be the despot charged with making all the decisions, leading all the battles.”

Trevor felt the weight of the third gift: memories to give him the skill to lead but carrying the price of dying moments, lost dreams, and sad good byes. The weight of the world.

“Be thankful, Evan, that you will never know that burden.”

*

Trevor put his argument with Evan behind and took advantage of a dose of November sunshine that pushed the temperature to the high fifties and melted away the dusting of snow from last night. Of course, those temperatures would certainly drop come dark and more snow could come at any time.

Nonetheless, the break in the weather pointed him to outside projects around the estate, such as raking leaves off the driveway and replacing burned-out floodlights. Around noon, he turned his attention to the main gate, which had been operating sluggishly.

With a can of WD-40 in hand, he approached the gate. On the way, he saw Omar’s six-year-old son and eleven-year-old daughter kicking a soccer ball in front of their A-Frame home, Reverend Johnny drove past in a Humvee setting off to scavenge for supplies, and Jon Brewer sat against a tree cleaning his rifle.

As Trevor went to work on the gate mechanism, he spotted Jerry Shepherd closing in on the boathouse with a fishing rod, cooler of beer, and a shotgun. Trevor also noticed Lori Brewer returning from the K9 barn. Both change directions and joined Trevor at the gate.

“Funny weather, ain’t it?” Shep said. “Snow last night; almost Spring-like today.”

Trevor replied, “I’ll take it. Winter is going to mean more than cold days; it’s going to mean real problems. Think of it—no snowplows, for one, and we’ll be burning through heating fuel fast. Probably end up cutting down half the trees around the lake by February.”

Lori said, “On the bright side, look who’s coming.”

Nina hurried to the three. She wore an oversized grin and carried both a backpack and rifle. Her peppy speech sounded as awkward in her voice as the grin looked on her face.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Shepherd eyed her suspiciously.

Trevor volleyed with not a hint of suave, “What’s up with you?”

“I was thinking it’s such a beautiful day out. Well, I packed a lunch and thought I’d take a hike up the mountain. Sort of a picnic patrol.”

Shepherd wiggled a finger in his ear. “A what?”

Nina spoke only to Trevor: “Thought you might like to join me.”

“Oh,” Trevor stumbled. “I, um, got to fix this fence here. Maybe later.”

Nina wiped her smile away. “Well, I guess I’ll go it alone.”

She walked off along the road with her shoulders slumped.

Shepherd shrugged and headed toward the dock. Lori punched Trevor in the exact same place she hit him two weeks ago.

“What the hell?”

“God damn it, can’t you see her reaching out? You’ve been an idiot in your lifetime but this takes the cake. For her to do what she just did…I mean, that is one shy girl.”

“I don’t know—”

“If you don’t care about Nina, if she’s nothing more than a soldier to you, then let her walk away. But I know that’s not the truth. I see how you look at her. Go ahead, call her a killer and treat her like a hired gun, but you can’t hide your feelings from me. I know you too well.”

Trevor slung his head.

“It’s…it’s not that simple. Ashley…”

“Ashley is gone. She’s been gone for months. You could die tomorrow. We all could. You’ve grieved enough. This is a miserable new world but maybe you have a chance to have a little happiness. Go, chase her down.”

They watched Nina, trotting along the road toward the forest by herself.

“Don’t be afraid to take a chance on someone. That’s what being human is all about.”

After a moment of silence, he offered Lori a slim grin.

“You know, you can be a real bitch.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

He placed a peck on her head, then pursued Nina calling, “Hey! Wait up a sec!”

Shepherd heard the call and returned to Lori who watched from afar as Trevor and Nina shared some words then started toward the mountain together.

Shepherd—rod, cooler, and shotgun in hand—asked Lori, “What was that about?”

Pleased with herself, she answered, “Love. It’s all about new love.”

“Love?” Shepherd shook his head slowly. “I’ve known Nina for a long time. I hope someday she does fall in love but I reckon when she does it won’t look like that.”

*

Trevor followed Nina up the path. He could not help but eye her. She was…she was beautiful. He had noticed that before but always forced those thoughts from his mind. It did not seem right to think about someone other than Ashley, as if he were betraying her.

Now, as he climbed a few steps behind Nina, he allowed himself to look at her.

She had an honest beauty. Strong and oh-so shapely but subtle, like how she hid her attractive blond hair in a ponytail as if trying to hide from the world.

Maybe he could let himself go. Maybe he could forget Ashley.

After a ten-minute hike, they arrived at a clearing—a rocky meadow—on the face of the mountain, a great observation post above and behind the estate.

Nina placed her backpack on the ground and dug through the contents.

Trevor enjoyed the incredible view. The forested mountainsides had thinned from autumn’s erosion of foliage, but enough evergreens remained to keep some green in the walls around the lake. A crisp wind reminded that the sunshine offered only a temporary respite from the approach of winter. Small birds crisscrossed the sky, creating an illusion of normality.

He said, “What a beautiful day. Wait a second, what is that?”

Something flew overtop the hills, chasing away the birds. A creature? A ship? He did not see any wings, propellers, or rotors on the big green blob dressed in fabric the texture of skin.

Creature or ship, it raced above the mountains directly for Trevor and Nina’s picnic spot.

“Nina, do you see this? I think we have a problem.”

He turned and saw her eyes narrowed to slits, her lip quivering. Trevor forgot about the approaching danger as Nina’s expression of absolute rage completely surprised him.

She snarled, “I saw what you did, you murdering bastard.”

Nina held something in her hand. It sparked.

“Now you’re going to pay for what you did to Scott.”

“Huh? Scott?”

She slammed the stun gun into his gut. A jolt of electricity shot through Stone’s body, tingling and burning. His legs wobbled and he collapsed.

*

Shepherd, on the dock, saw the ship—a blob—and realized it headed for the mountain face. At that same moment, a Humvee squealed to a halt on the lake road by the boathouse. Reverend Johnny called from behind the wheel.

“Ring the Lord’s bells and join us, Mr. Shepherd. There will be the devil to pay today!”

Shepherd ran to the Humvee where he found Lori and Jon Brewer already in the back seat. The car raced forward even before Shep closed the passenger side door.

“What is it Reverend?” he asked as others around the estate gazed upward at the thing.

Johnny answered only, “I fear the worst.”

K9s barked and ran about the grounds with unfocused energy. Anita Nehru hurried her children inside; the forgotten soccer ball rolled to a stop.

“Won’t this blasted car go faster? Dear Lord, if only I had wings!”

The Humvee swung onto a side road, crossed a field, and found the mountain path; a path for people, not cars, but that did not stop the Reverend. The vehicle violently bounced over rocks and scraped against trees as Johnny drove with furious determination.

*

The ship—as long as a commercial airliner but wider—descended upon the mountainside. Its sickly hide pulsated. Support ribs ran its length. Short and long tendrils sprouted from the body in no discernable pattern. The horrid vehicle rumbled as it hovered low over the meadow.

A membrane on the side of the craft drew open. Two humanoids—the shells of human beings—in dark robes with thin swords on rope belts jumped from the dark confines of the craft.

Nina watched as the intruders approached, her face alternating expressions of confusion, of anger, then confusion again, then anger won out. She pointed them to Trevor, who writhed on the ground nearly unconscious. They hauled him into the waiting craft.

The Humvee skidded to a stop among the rocks and grass of the mountain clearing, its tires going flat, side panels dented and ripped, and a trail of dust billowing behind. Jerry Shepherd leapt from the passenger’s side before the wheels had stopped turning.

“Nina! Get away from there!”

A bulge massed on the skin of the craft. That bulge formed a long barrel.

“Lord have mercy!” Reverend Johnny raced toward Shepherd. “Take cover!”

“He murdered Scott!” Nina yelled from the hovering ship. “He killed the man I loved! He killed the man I was going to marry! He’s going to pay!”

Shepherd’s face corkscrewed and his mouth gaped not at the sight of the strange alien craft, but at Nina’s words. His confusion blinded him to the looming threat.

The organic protrusion on the ship literally spit its fire: the barrel curled and straightened, curled and straightened, at lightning speed. Reverend Johnny tackled Shepherd and the two rolled to cover next to the Hummer. Jon and Lori exited the car but a shower of pellets bounced off the hood and forced them to cover, too.

Nina climbed on to the waiting ship. The membrane closed. The covering fire of the side gun stopped. The monstrosity rose into the sky then flew south, taking Nina and Trevor away.

The Order

“Name: Bore Bug

Secondary Name(s): Burn Bugs; Torture Beetles; Bore Beetles

Classification: Insect, small

Physical Characteristics: Black and red; beetle-like w/pincers; ½”-1” in size

Description: Created by The Order. A swarm of Bore Bugs is poured upon a restrained target. The creatures bore into the skin and out again causing significant pain. While they leave wounds the Bore Bugs do not cause permanent damage and therefore are ideal for repeat use on the same victim to inflict maximum suffering.”

—Excerpt from Hostiles Database 1st edition.

The chair cascaded across the Command Center, bouncing into a corner. Jon refused to acknowledge the pain in his foot as he walked to the desk and slammed his M4 on top.

His wife told him to, “Calm down.”

Shep, Omar, Stonewall, and “Bear” Ross stood nearby watching Jon’s tantrum. Others gathered in small groups downstairs where they mingled nervously, like shepherd-less sheep.

Forty minutes had past since the monster-ship disappeared over the southern horizon. Dustin McBride and Dante Jones went to spread the word of Trevor’s abduction to the farms.

Stonewall said, “I beg your pardon, but it occurs to me that we need to carefully weigh our options. I suggest a more constructive course than furniture-kicking.”

Lori asked, “Can’t we get the helicopters after them? Maybe they can shoot it down?”

“Great idea,” Jon scoffed. “Did you get your pilot’s license yet?”

Shepherd added, “Nina and Trevor were the only ones who knew how to fly them.”

“Wait a second,” Lori remembered, “didn’t they rescue a pilot from the Red Hands?”

Ross knew to whom Lori referred.

“He didn’t fly helicopters. He’s a student pilot. Hasn’t even learned how to land yet.”

Stonewall quipped, “Hmm, that should make his next lesson quite interesting.”

“Enough!” Jon snapped. “I’m glad you find this funny cause I sure as hell don’t.”

“Easy, fella,” Shepherd said. “No one is laughing.”

Jon eyed the older man. “Except for your girl, Nina. She must be laughing good.”

Shepherd’s brow drew sharp.

“I reckon you should explain that, son.”

“You saw what she did. She tricked Trevor to hand him over to those things. She was yelling something at you. I reckon you should share it with the rest of us.”

Everyone stared at Shepherd. Omar coughed a puff of smoke.

Stonewall struggled to maintain calm in his voice: “Did Mr. Brewer suggest that Nina Forest engineered this abduction? Did I hear that correctly?”

Jon barked, “Damn straight, you heard it right.”

“No, that’s not possible,” Lori jumped to Nina’s defense but they did not listen to her.

Jerry Shepherd told them, “She was yelling that Trevor murdered Scott.”

“Scott?” Ross did not know of Scott.

Jon told him, “He was the fourth person with them when their chopper crashed. We spent almost three days looking for Nina and this Scott guy. We only found Nina.”

During the course of the conversation, Omar’s head swiveled back and forth as if watching a tennis match. He finally broke in, “I ask for your excuse in my asking, but why would Mr. Trevor be wanting to murder someone?”

“He didn’t,” Shepherd said and squeezed his eyes shut tight.

Lori narrowed her eyes and walked to Shep with her head tilted.

“There’s something more. What is it?”

Shep said, “As I recall, she said she loved Scott and she was going to marry him.”

Stonewall concluded, “Avenging her dead lover? How romantic.”

“No, no,” Shepherd grimaced.

Lori finished his thought: “Nina wasn’t involved with this Scott guy. Or anyone.”

The conviction in her voice surprised Shep and he eagerly agreed.

“That’s right. They hated each other and not in that way boys and girls hate each other then end up in the sack. He wasn’t a very open-minded fella and she had no respect for him.”

Jon groaned. “Fine. Great. So where the hell does that leave us?”

“Seems to me we have one other problem to consider,” Shepherd said and turned his head toward the door. As usual, two Doberman Pinschers guarded that door, sitting so firm and rigid that it might have qualified as ‘attention.’

Stonewall gave voice to the concern: “I say, without their Master around, is it conceivable they may turn on us? How gruesome a thought.”

A booming voice grabbed their attention: “Rejoice with Him, O heavens, and let all the angels of God worship Him, for he will avenge the blood of his servants!”

Reverend Johnny stormed into the room carrying a metal box. He placed it atop the map on the desk and opened the lid. A putrid smell seeped into the air from the green carcass inside.

Stonewall pinched his nostrils. “I say, what fiendish mess have you visited upon us?”

Jon peeked into the box and observed, “That’s the creature from last night.”

Reverend Johnny said, “I recognized the ship that spirited away our friends. It was a ‘Chariot’ driven by The Order, not quite an animal yet more than machine.”

Lori stumbled with the words as she said, “Nina gave Trevor to The Order?”

Shepherd quickly replied, “That makes no sense.”

“Is it possible that Ms. Forest was having an implant?” Omar asked.

Jon said, “She had no blotches. She was never alone to get them. I don’t think they could’ve gotten into her apartment to implant her without the alarm sounding—wait a second…she was alone…once. For three days. Back when you first crashed. Wow.”

Reverend Johnny fiddled with the dead mass in the box.

Lori did not believe it. “No, she would’ve shown signs a long time ago.”

“Cast your eyes upon this fiend,” Reverend Johnny interrupted. “I think it shall reveal answers unto us.”

He pulled loose a messy, slimy chunk of the creature, a sort of pouch made of a clear, plastic-like flesh.

“I have conducted many exams of The Order’s machinations and have come to recognize this part of their biotechnology. This organ produces a transmission. Yes that’s it—a signal.”

Stonewall asked, “So it could roust reinforcements? Or send a message on our whereabouts, perhaps?”

“I fear we are dealing with something even beyond my direct experience,” Johnny cautioned. “But the Lord has blessed me with the intelligence to venture a guess as to the purpose behind this vile creature. You say Ms. Forest disappeared for three days?”

“Yep,” Shepherd answered. “But that was a good month and a half ago. She’s shown no signs of an implant. She was acting all normal up ‘til this afternoon.”

“When she asked Trevor to go on a picnic.” Lori remembered she had encouraged Trevor to go. Maybe she should not have stuck her nose in after all.

“Hear me out, friends. One thing my trials and tribulations have taught is that The Order is a clever bunch. Blasphemous, but clever. Based on the evidence my eyes show me and the words you tell about Ms. Forest, I must conclude that during her hiatus she was implanted with something new. Something that sat dormant until activated by this gruesome specimen.”

“Good, God,” Jon gasped. “Then they made sure we found her so we’d bring her back here. But why?”

Stonewall said, “We all know Mr. Stone is blessed with unusual…‘assets,’ that have given us a fighting chance. If The Order knew there was someone out there of his capacity…”

Jon completed the thought as he waved a small cloud of Omar’s smoke away: “They could find him by using a survivor to track him down and eliminate that threat.”

Lori, relieved, said, “So Nina is innocent.”

Shepherd remained puzzled. “That doesn’t explain why she thinks Trevor killed Scott or why she has memories of being in love with that guy.”

The Reverend proclaimed, “Some revelations must wait.”

“Excuse me for being such a pesky nose-sticker-in,” Omar said as he took another nervous drag from his smoke. “But I do not see how this revelation changes the situation.”

Reverend Johnny offered an answer.

“My friends, I have told you that The Order uses a bio technology and that technology can be countered by enzymes—specific enzymes. It’s as if each of their unholy creatures comes in batches from similar—but not identical—organic machines that vary from region to region. I have removed dozens of implants from The Order’s victims in the weeks before I found my home here. All of those implants shared a common source, just as this miserable creature in this metal box came from that same place. It’s the reason I was moving south when I had the fortune to make your acquaintance.”

Jon led, “And that place is…?”

The Reverend removed the box and its messy contents from the desktop.

“Another blessing of saving a soul from The Order after implantation is that they have some recollection of the experience. I can tell you with confidence that The Order’s closest outpost—the one from whence all these beings have been constructed—is here…”

He slammed a finger onto the map, pointing to a mid-sized city to the south.

Allentown, Pennsylvania.

“That’s only two hours away on the turnpike.” Lori sounded relieved.

Jon groaned and told her, “Two hours at sixty-five on a clear turnpike.”

Stonewall McAllister explained further: “I fear that journey would be across a hostile landscape with ferocious beasts waiting at every turn. The comfort and seclusion of this estate has blinded some of us to the reality that awaits just a few miles over yonder.”

“People, just so we’re clear,” Jon said, “we’re talking about some sixty or seventy miles.”

Lori asked, “Reverend, I want the truth. What do you think is going to happen to Trevor? If they wanted him dead, they would’ve killed him on the mountain. Can we save him?”

“Even if they violate him with an implant today we should have some time to remove it. Still, I cannot see the truth. If I’m right in what this vile creature did to Ms. Forest, even my knowledge of The Order is humble.”

Shepherd’s eyes grew wide and in a panicked voice he asked, “What about Nina?”

“Again, Mr. Shepherd, I can not say. However, she was not showing any blotches on her skin. Perhaps she, too, may be salvaged.”

Jon leaned low over the map and scratched his chin.

“What say you?” Shepherd asked Jon.

“What? It’s not up to me.”

“Yes, it’s your decision,” Shepherd said. “You’ve been Trevor’s right-hand guy since we got here. He trusts your judgment. Seems to me this one is on your shoulders, like it or not.”

Jon stood straight and glanced around the room. He saw all eyes on him.

“I owe him,” Jon said. “I think we all do. So there really isn’t much of a decision to make. Let’s go. Let’s go and get him back.”

*

Trevor blinked his eyes open and found himself staring up at a softly glowing ball planted high in a black ceiling.

A woman’s voice commanded, “Wake up you murdering son of a bitch.”

His senses rebooted, one at a time.

Behind the voice, he heard a strange, unsettling sound; a noise like breathing, or perhaps a vibration from some arcane machine. The air felt warm and moist, but also carried a heavy, rotting feeling as if the air itself had spoiled.

Images—memories—assembled like puzzle pieces fitting into place.

The mountain top…the thing in the sky…

Panic slammed his gut.

“Nina! Nina, are you okay?”

Her voice snarled, “I’m fine now that you’re going to pay for what you did.”

A binding of some kind—wet rope?—restrained his arms and legs as he lay on a hard table. The area around him, beyond the rim of light cast from above, hid in darkness but he sensed a wide-open chamber.

A shiver shot through his body and he realized he wore no clothes. Interestingly, he still felt the slight weight of the key around his neck, yet he could not see it. Perhaps only his eyes could see that key, if it really existed at all.

Nina stepped into the light and glared at him with contempt.

“You killed Scott. I remember now.”

His confusion and the horrid surroundings stayed any feelings of bashfulness. He lay naked, strapped to a table in front of her, but that seemed so very unimportant.

“Nina, what are you talking about? Where are we?”

“I brought you to The Order; your greatest enemy. They will do worse than kill you.”

Her rage emanated so powerfully that Trevor immediately saw it as forced. Even in his groggy state of mind, he knew he had never met—let alone killed—Scott.

“What do you remember, Nina?”

“I remember you killing him. I found my memories. I saw you kill my lover.”

“Your…lover?”

She spoke in short shots, as if reading bullet points from a script: “Yes, we were going to be married. We were in love. You killed him. I must have revenge.”

Trevor pleaded, “Nina, this isn’t you. They are controlling you, somehow. If I had killed Scott, you would have killed—not kidnapped—me. You aren’t friends with these aliens! They are manipulating you. They gave you this idea so you’d give me to them. It must be an implant!”

“Shut up! You murdering bastard!”

Another voice interrupted from the darkness: “That’s enough for now, my child.”

She hesitated, her brow furled, and then Nina reluctantly withdrew. A figure materialized and approached Trevor Stone.

He wore an ornate robe and slowly glided next to Trevor’s bound form. He may have been in his fifties but this man had changed from human to something different.

The skin on his face flaked, as if decaying but not dying. Scaly patches of green covered his throat. Emerald pupils with dark pulsating red veins sat where human eyes once lived. His clothing, a gold and red robe, gently writhed as if a mass squirmed beneath.

“Who are you?”

“I am a servant of the living God, Voggoth. A Bishop in his forces of righteousness.”

Trevor tried to act brave, but fear tingled in his limbs and he trembled against the restraints. This was an evil place: the sound of the walls…as if they were alive; this horrid, warped man, the fact that Nina had trapped him here.

He wanted to scream I never wanted this! I didn’t ask to be a leader!

Instead, his voice quivered, “A-Are you going to stick one of those things in me?”

“If only I could reward you by making you one with Voggoth. Alas, my son, your role in perpetuating the greatness of the one true God will take you on a much darker path. You will become a servant of my Lord in many different ways but you will not be one with Him. We have something different planned for you. Something painful. Very painful.”

A mass moved on the ceiling; the light there flickered. Something big. Something spindly…insect-like.

“Wh-what are you going to do?”

He tried to find the courage to be a shining example of humanity in the face of this devil but he could not, especially as he caught a glimpse of what moved up there. It resembled a gigantic Black Widow spider: much bigger than a man. It dangled from the ceiling with its legs working feverishly on something.

Preparing.

“If we were to make you one with Voggoth and return you to your friends, they would discover your new found righteousness. We could give you one of the new sleeper implants, such as we gave your friend. It lay dormant for a long time, no larger than a freckle on her back, until the activation signal brought it to life but the purpose of the sleeper implant was much different then the goals we have set for you.”

“Goals?”

The spider-thing blocked the main light as it hung from the ceiling, reaching out with its thin appendages toward the victim’s naked body.

A fright-filled groan slipped from his lips.

“You have already gained quite a following. Rumors of your fight to save your people have spread far. There are those who suggest your ability to adapt to your new role is evidence of mankind’s strength. Now we shall dispel such notions while at the same time serving Voggoth’s interests on this world.”

Trevor struggled in vain against his bindings as the spider-thing dangled closer.

A thick attachment—an umbilical cord—stretched away from the creature’s abdomen to the ceiling, suggesting it was part of the room, not an independent entity.

A thin tube extended from the monster toward Trevor’s face.

“There is some debate within The Order as to the greater weakness of your kind: is it your attachments and emotions, or is it—as I believe—the physical attributes of your body? We shall now test my theory by using what you would call ‘agony’. The suffering you endure will open your mind to programming of our design.”

The tube stuck into Trevor’s mouth. A clear, gooey liquid oozed from the sides of the tube and covered his lips. As it oozed it solidified, creating a seal. He could not move his mouth, yet he could breathe through the tube.

The Bishop bent close to Trevor’s ear.

“You will wither and break, Mr. Stone, a demonstration of your weakness for all to see and then you will be programmed to serve The Order. They will find no implants, yet in the end you will deliver your entire race to blessed Voggoth.”

More of the gooey substance poured over Trevor’s head, sealing first his nostrils then his ears, then gluing his eyes open. More liquid came, poured over his crotch and oozing around the middle of his body. The secretions sealed every orifice.

A bloated, organic sack drooped from the torture-spider above Trevor’s feet.

“No permanent damage will be done. We do not want your body harmed. We only want to open the door to your mind.”

The sack burst and thousands of tiny red and black insects poured out. They swarmed his body in a creeping blanket, digging at his skin, burning and itching as they moved. The gooey mask muffled his screams and he disappeared beneath the horde.

*

Jon pushed the workshop door open before Omar could remove his key from the lock.

“Oh, yes, please, do not worry about breaking my wrist; this is of no big thing.”

Jon ignored him and walked inside. Omar switched on the fluorescent lights.

“Wow, lots of toys here.”

“Toys? Oh, certainly, so simple a child understanding them would be of no problem.”

Brewer turned and stomped directly to Omar. The professor thought maybe Jon had finally suffered enough sarcasm and aimed to whack him.

“I’m just kidding! I’m just kidding!”

“Me and you have to have a talk. I’ve only got a couple of hours and I need your help.”

Omar searched for a cigarette.

*

Stonewall McAllister surveyed the assembled group of eight with Woody “Bear” Ross and Kristy Kaufman at his side. Dustin McBride also hovered nearby.

“I had the pleasure of commanding some of you during my trek north. Others are new to me, but I am already quite sure of your valor. You would have to have valor—or extreme mental deficiency—to volunteer for this undertaking. It has been my experience that those with valor or those with extreme mental deficiency tend to fight well.”

Many of the group smiled. Others cast their eyes around nervously.

“I fight well. I will leave it to you to judge if it from valor or deficiency. You should know this adventure will not be under my command. Mr. Jon Brewer will hold the reigns and I have pledged allegiance to him. Together, we will deliver a blow to our enemies.”

Ross boomed, “Who’s with the General?”

Several of the volunteers—including McAllister’s officers—yelled, “Hoo-rah!”

Ross stepped closer to the group and glared at those who had not yelled, eliciting a cough, a snicker, and finally more “hoo-rahs”.

“Mr. Ross, take a team to the farm and retrieve our mounts and wagons. Ms. Kaufman, dust off our collection of things that make big bangs. Impress a few of our volunteers here to help with the heavy lifting; you mustn’t damage those pretty nails of yours.”

“Right away, General.” Her voice spoke first soft then roared, “All right, I need four strong backs who ain’t afraid of work! FALL IN!”

The group dispersed. Jerry Shepherd approached.

“How goes assembly, General?”

Stonewall tipped his head politely. “My group will be ready in a few hours. I believe Mr. Brewer’s decision to go on horseback to be sound. We can not depend on fuel resources out there in the wilderness.”

“Agreed. You’ve been outside of this valley, Garrett. You’ve seen things.”

“Indeed.”

“Both Trevor and now Jon, we’re following fellas who haven’t seen much of what really is going on out there.”

Stonewall smiled, “I suspect we will have to provide assistance. I have thrown my lot in with Mr. Stone. I will do what I must.”

“I reckon that’s true. I’m just not quite sure all of these folks know what they’re in for. This ain’t no Saturday night cruise.”

“Indeed not, Mr. Shepherd. Indeed not.”

*

Jon Brewer, Danny Washburn, Reverend Johnny, and Kristy Kaufman gathered in the Command Center

Jon told them, “We’re keeping the party to a minimum to not attract attention.”

Danny asked, “Will you have enough fire power when you get there?”

“Fear not, for He shall guide the faithful with his sturdy hand,” Reverend Johnny added his voice to the discussion. “This is one disciple of the Lord who is never short of two things: faith or ammunition. We will cut a swath through the fields of—”

Jon interrupted, “Gotchya, Rev,” and then to Kristy and Washburn: “You two will be in charge of things around here for the time being. Hunker down and keep a low profile. Your biggest worry is the K9s. So far, they’ve been keeping with their standard patrols and whatnot. Who knows what will happen the longer Trevor is away.”

Washburn said, “Hey, don’t worry,” then threw an arm around Kristy who scowled. “Me and the little lady here will keep a light on for ya’.”

*

Trevor awoke in the room bound to the table. The bugs were gone—perhaps a long while ago—but it did not matter: the sensation of the crawling mass remained, ingrained into the nerve endings throughout his body.

The hideous torture-spider had vanished, possibly hiding nearby in the dark. The room still rumbled that scary sound as if he were inside the belly of a living being or a giant machine.

“Our great leader faints at the sight of a few bugs.” Nina appeared at his side but he did not see her at first; his attention remained on his ordeal.

Stop it! Stop it! I’ll do anything you want! Make the pain stop!

The sight of her cut a tiny path of awareness through the howling in his head.

“Nina…?” He heard his own words and realized the seals were gone. That gave him small relief and he took hold of that; focused on it and muffled the anguished cries in his mind.

She spoke but, again, sounded as if she ticked off bullet points: “You killed Scott. You’re a murdering bastard.”

He heard the raging hatred pervading her voice as if a fire burned inside and threatened to consume her.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he croaked through a dry mouth.

“I saw you kill Scott. I saw you kill him in cold blood. You didn’t think I’d remember but I have a clear memory now. I hate you!”

“Nina, listen, somehow they gave you—they gave you these memories. It’s a lie.”

He closed his eyes and heard Lori Brewer say, “She just a lonely little girl.”

The Bishop walked into the room and quietly watched the exchange.

“Oh Nina, what have they done to you? I’m sorry…I’m sorry we didn’t find you quicker. It had to have been when the helicopter crashed. They got to you first.”

“Go to hell.”

“I care about you, Nina. I have for a while now. I just didn’t admit it to myself. Maybe if I had said something earlier. I’m sorry I let you down like I let Sheila down. “

Trevor did not see any of the telltale blotches on her skin.

“You don’t have any blotches. You haven’t started turning yet. You might still be saved. Fight them, Nina.”

She ran a hand over her cheek as if searching for deformities.

The Bishop stepped forward and grasped her shoulders.

“It’s okay, my dear. You are getting your revenge.”

Nina’s anger returned. She glared again at Trevor and then stomped away.

The Bishop watched her go. “Amazing, isn’t it, what these emotions can do to your kind.”

Trevor spied the torture-spider creeping o the ceiling. The screams in his head grew louder. Soon they would grow louder to his ears, too. Nonetheless, he stiffened and tried to play his role.

“Who are you? Why—why have you invaded Earth? Who is Voggoth?”

“Oh blessed Voggoth! Your people often speak as if there is a part of your God in you, but that is not true. Voggoth gives of himself and spreads his word by spreading himself. Voggoth is the greatest of the nine. He was the first, he is immortal, and he remains the only true God. The others desire to be him, but they are unworthy.”

Trevor trembled uncontrollably as the torture-spider stopped overhead.

“Soon Voggoth will encompass this world and many more like it. Then his glory will be even greater for he will be one of only eight and your people will be his children.”

The torturer pounced, encircling the platform like a cage and brandishing a massive, fury orifice throbbing with vile liquid.

“This sensation will be quite disturbing, Mr. Stone. It may feel as if you’re being eaten, but rest assured it is only a feeling.”

*

The sun remained behind the eastern horizon yet licks of orange teased the sky. A mist hung over the lake and the cold morning dew made everything feel fresh and new.

The rescue force gathered on the grounds to the sound of freckle-faced Benny Duda—Stonewall’s 12-year-old bugle boy—playing assembly on his trumpet. Or something like it.

Shep, Reverend Johnny, Stonewall, Ross and eight volunteers comprised Jon’s team.

Shep shouted, “Okay, let’s do a little roll call. Ah, you there, get things started.”

A Hispanic male saved from the Red Hands raised his left arm and called, “Sanchez!”

A man in his early thirties with a potbelly and a cowboy hat: “Name’s Gruder.”

“Tolbert!” Cried a broad-shouldered black man who had served as a guard at the nearby Chase maximum-security prison.

The remaining five all belonged to Stonewall’s original troop.

A slightly older fellow with a bald scalp whistled and answered, “Whiskey!”

“Huh?” Shepherd tilted his head to hear better.

Stonewall clarified, “That’s his name.”

“Oh.”

Next came a black woman in her early twenties. Before she spoke, Stonewall McAllister said, “We are familiar with you, Miss Simms. Please endeavor to shoot the correct people.”

“Don’t worry Garrett, I only shoot the ones who deserve it.” She directed a wry smile and narrow eyes at him. Stonewall swallowed hard.

A burly man in a plaid shirt and hunting cap shouted enthusiastically, “Tucker! Sir!”

Stonewall said, “Mr. Tucker is an accomplished rider and a fair shot.”

A big, middle-aged redheaded fellow said, “Boylen. Now get me a bigger gun.”

An older brunette woman with fire in her eyes called her name; “Ames!”

Shepherd scratched his ear and told Jon, “That about sums it up.”

Nine horses and two wagons lined the drive. Reverend Johnny loaded a last box aboard one cart. When he saw the stocks inside— including several large, tarp-covered objects—he said, “It appears we are bringing the All Mighty’s fury upon those godless bastards.”

With Shep at his side, Jon Brewer tentatively approached a horse.

Shepherd asked, “Never, huh?”

“No. You?”

“Two years Philly mounted patrol,” Shep beamed.

“I think I’ll stick to the wagon.”

A “hey” from behind turned Jon around. Lori stood there, her hands wringing. She had that “see how strong I’m being” lie in her eyes.

“Hey,” he echoed.

They looked at each other the way two people who have been together for a long time can look at each other and say a thousand words without a sound.

“I’ll be back.”

“I knew you’d say that. Don’t make it a lie.”

“I love you, too.”

She grabbed him with a hug; the strength of her grasp surprised him.

“I can be a real pain in your ass…” she started.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he finished and then boarded the lead wagon next to Boylen who held the reigns.

Tyr and Odin raced to the group and jumped onboard Jon’s ride. They brought four Siberian Huskies with them and a couple of Rottweilers. Apparently, they were going regardless of what anyone else thought.

Spurs jingled and the clop-clop of horseshoes clattered on the drive as the train started off from the isolated estate toward the unknown wilderness of the new and deadly world.

Torment

The rescue party traveled in a southeasterly direction. The plan looked easy enough on the map: cut across the fields, forests, and hills of the “Back Mountain” and then cross the river. Eventually they would meet the Northeast Extension of the Pennsylvania Turnpike. That would be their navigation point for the rest of the trip to Allentown.

It had looked easy enough…on the map.

Jon soon found himself surprised at the challenge in keeping the small group together. Horses threw riders, false alarms proved distracting, and the piss breaks never ended.

After crossing Follies Road in Jackson Township, the K9s onboard Jon’s wagon broke into a fit of barking just as a putrid smell of acidic rot fell over the travelers. A moment later—as the horses and wagons moved across an open field—a fifteen-foot tall crawling mass of tendrils and squirming appendages spilling from a conical carapace slithered from an abandoned barn with the apparent aim of snatching a late breakfast.

Jon directed riders to circle the beast; one tendril slapped Shepherd off his mount. Woody “Bear” Ross intervened with a well-lobbed Molotov cocktail that splattered on the creature’s exposed feelers and burned.

Reverend Johnny fell the final blows in 12-gauge blasts from a Street Sweeper shotgun.

Jon’s posse cheered as the dead monster burned. Their first victory.

Progress slowed as they climbed the mountains of the valley’s southwestern perimeter via the Lackawanna State Forest. As they descended the eastern side around noontime, Jon and his team arrived at the Route 29 bridge spanning the Susquehanna River south of Plymouth.

They were half way across when beetles the size of cats crawled from beneath the span. Rifle fire and shotgun shells killed more than twenty of the oversized insects but they managed to injure two horses, one seriously enough for Shepherd to put down.

With the bridge and the bugs behind them, the convoy followed the elevated freeway east. They saw many different alien animals roaming the streets and fields to either side, most seemingly docile herbivores or scavengers.

In a case of serendipity, a group of six thin but alive survivors picking through a jackknifed Sysco Foods trailer flagged down the convoy. Jon provided the extended family with directions to the estate but could not help them more; he had a mission to accomplish.

They turned onto Interstate 81 and climbed the eastern mountain wall of the valley, passing Lake Nuangola then cutting southeast through Wright Township on Route 437.

Late that afternoon, the convoy slowed for a break northwest of White Haven. Jon stopped his wagon along the berm and stared at creatures gathered in a field. Shepherd and Stonewall maneuvered their horses to his side.

There grazed a quartet of beasts each the size of a small elephant with big seal-like faces, soft fuzzy hides, and jagged backbones. They scooped dying grass into their round mouths and sifted through the bites, perhaps extracting nutrients or insects.

“It boggles the mind what has happened to our world,” Stonewall remarked. “If a man were to pause and reflect on these events he would have to question the rhyme or reason.”

Shepherd said, “Seems to me that whatever caused all this wasn’t lookin’ to just take the planet like Martians in those 50’s sci-fi flicks. No, someone was aimin’ to do a right bit more.”

Jon thought aloud, “To erase our world.”

The oversized fuzzy seal-beasts hurriedly closed ranks. A flock of Earthly birds fluttered away from the barren trees and bushes at the far end of the field.

Shep recognized the nervous state of prey animals and urged, “We need to get goin’.”

Too late.

A pack of three predators pushed through the tree line to the east and sent a wave of sheer terror through the ranks. At first, Jon saw only teeth: a massive circular array of teeth dominating the entire front of the creatures; jaws easily the size of a tractor-trailer grill on bodies bigger than a full-size van. Patches of brown fur sprouted between plates of dull-gray armor covering their bodies and they walked on four muscular legs. Jon saw two black eyes set just above the monstrous maw completing the image of some warped cartoon wolf from a nightmarish Little Red Riding Hood myth.

The hunters circled the prey huddled in the field. As the attackers closed, one of the herd lost its nerve and bolted from formation.

One of the jaw-wolf things pursued, closed to a few yards, and opened its massive teeth like spreading fingers on an unclenching fist, revealing a matching set of smaller—but equally sharp—teeth within.

Jon watched it happen—they all saw—but it took him several seconds to comprehend.

The smaller set shot from the hunter’s mouth on a red tendon, clamped into the escaping seal-beast, and bit it in two. As the tendon retracted, it hauled a chunk of meat and gore into the predator’s mouth and the larger teeth folded in to help chew. The monster stood over the kill, its attention fully focused on dinner.

Predators, yes, but predators straight from the depths of Hell.

Stonewall prodded, “Mr. Brewer…?”

“Jesus Christ,” Jon regained his senses. “Let’s get out of here before—”

The remaining two hungry jaw-wolves spotted the human contingent. They left behind the seal-beasts and approached slowly, splitting to flank as they closed.

Stonewall cried, “To arms I say!”

Reverend Johnny—riding in the other wagon— retrieved a weapon from the cargo area. Most of those on horseback dismounted along the road with rifles ready, a few remained in their saddles, perhaps contemplating flight.

“Fire at will!” Jon ordered.

A sheet of bullets rained upon the predators. The jaw-wolves cringed but did not retreat as the shots ricocheted off their armor plating and massive teeth.

Then they attacked from either side.

Reverend Johnny—a World War II era flamethrower strapped to his back—intercepted the one on the southern flank.

“Son of man, give the people this message from the LORD: A sword is being sharpened and polished. It is being prepared for terrible slaughter; it will FLASH LIKE LIGHTNING!”

The creature stopped as the flames licked at its front. A rich chemical smell of burning fuel spewed across the impromptu battlefield.

Nothing halted the creature on the northern flank as it aimed for Tucker, who spurred his mount and whipped the reigns

The monster’s inner jaws extended, pinching together the rider and much of the horse. The jaws retracted to the wolf’s mouth where the outer layer of teeth folded over the ensnared man and what remained of his steed. Tucker—alive for a few more moments—cried out from behind the curtain of ivory as the satisfied hunter spirited away its prize.

Johnny’s flamethrower held the remaining jaw-wolf at bay. Woody Ross produced one of the ping-pong ball grenades taken from the platypus aliens. He activated it with a squeeze and rolled the device beneath the monster’s belly.

The explosion ripped the creature from below where its armor provided no protection. Gore poured to the ground and it collapsed.

Jon wasted no time. “Quick, saddle up. Hurry. Let’s move!”

Horses spurred to action and whips sent the wagons rolling as fast as they could move to the south, counting one less in their number.

*

Two robed disciples of The Order carried Trevor into a new chamber, this one smaller but no less vile than the lair of the torture-spider. They dropped him, naked and unconscious. Two tendrils slithered over, clasped his wrists, and dragged him against the wall.

“We will hold him here for a spell,” the Bishop said as he brought a companion to view the captive. “Until modifications to the Purification Center are complete.”

The Bishop’s companion was an older man but not elderly, dressed in black with a thin body. He and a flock of converts had battled Trevor Stone a few weeks before.

“That is the one,” the Missionary Man said. “I nearly converted him some time ago.”

The Bishop answered, “He will better serve us once the processing is complete.”

“Glory to Voggoth!”

“Yes, indeed. Nonetheless, this situation amplifies your failure during the initial phase of the invasion. Had you found your target on that first day, this process would not be necessary and our resources could be invested elsewhere.”

The Missionary Man ran one crooked hand across his neck where wounded tentacles hid. “Your Excellency, I searched the location but found no trace of any humans, let alone those of Stone’s bloodline or acquaintance. Is there any suggestion as to what forces were at work?”

The Bishop hovered over Trevor, studying the sleeping man like a researcher watching a lab rat for symptoms.

“The disappearances remain a mystery.”

“We now know the location of their sanctuary. Allow me to lead a force to overrun their position. No doubt the one we seek is among them.”

“No,” the Bishop pulled his emerald eyes from Trevor and glared at the Missionary Man. “Our activities on the Asian continent have already drawn attention; we can not risk such overt action here.”

Again, the Bishop stared at Trevor. He said, “We will continue his ordeal. The pain is already driving him mad. The point will come when his mind is open. Then we will ease his suffering with each concession, one after another, until he eagerly accepts the dominion of Voggoth and delivers his people to The Order.”

“Praise be to Voggoth, your Excellency. Allow me to suggest the immediate termination of the woman. She is dangerous. We suffered many losses in her capture.”

“Fear not, she is under control. Surprisingly simple, in fact. Once activated, the cache gland projected false memories implicating whomever she viewed as leader and then the implant amplified her emotions. One can appreciate the irony.”

“Irony, your Excellency?”

“Forgive me. Much like your ambition—do not think I have not taken note of it—a sense of what they call ‘irony’ remains with me since my glorious transformation. As distasteful as I find any remnants of that existence, I do see this ‘irony’ here: the woman only betrayed him when she finally accepted him as her leader, consciously or not.”

“Is it possible, your Excellency, that she is the second half? The mother?”

“No, we tested for that. However, she does harbor strong feelings for Mr. Stone, which is why the emotional amplification exceeded expectations. We will observe the effects a while longer. When I am satisfied, we shall terminate her and remove the cache gland. This will allow us direct access to her memories since implantation.”

“You are most wise, Excellency.”

“Glory to Voggoth, brother.”

*

The convoy followed the turnpike, traveling over the grasslands, forests, and hills to either side of the highway to remain at least somewhat concealed.

As night fell, they arrived at Hickory Run State Park and camped in a field. Dinner meant salty beef jerky or freeze-dried meals. They rested in shifts but the lingering image of Tucker dragged off by a jaw-wolf kept most awake.

Jon Brewer shared a slowly dying fire with Shep and Reverend Johnny; the latter finished a rather long and dramatic tale concerning one of his many battles with The Order.

“After Voggoth’s children burned, those National Guard fellows marched toward Boston despite my warnings. That city was in total chaos. I, as you can see, continued my pursuit south.”

“Seems to me you’ve been fighting these things for a while now,” Shepherd said. “But you’re a medical man?”

“Yes,” Johnny held his hands out and stared at his palms. “Before Hell descended upon our world these were the hands of a surgeon. Neurology, my specialty. I returned feeling to limbs where feeling was lost. I knew and understood every working of the human body.”

“Forgive me for asking, Doc, but—”

“Reverend. I am no longer a Doctor, Captain Shepherd.”

“I see. Well that’s my question, Reverend. How did you go from being ‘Doc’ to being a holy man? What denomination are you?”

“I am a slave to no denomination. I know all the workings of the body. That is where my faith lay. I see the Lord in the beating of the heart, in the churning of the bowels.”

Jon mumbled, “Oh, now there’s a pretty thought.”

“Scoff not. The body is the manifestation of the Lord for we are created in His image.”

Shep said, “And nothing burns you more than seeing these Order fellas slipping implants in the human body. Is that it?”

“You are a wise man, Captain Shepherd. Now I preach the purity of the human body: the holiness of it. The followers of Voggoth defile God’s creation. I shall smite them.”

Brewer pushed, “So the healer turns into a soldier. I have to admit, Rev, I’m not exactly buying that one. What really made you put down scalpels and pick up a machine gun?”

Shepherd leaned forward and rubbed his hands over the embers.

In an unusually sedate voice, Johnny explained, “I was the head surgeon at Massachusetts General Hospital. On the day of reckoning, the hospital suffered invasion by all manner of monsters. I escaped the carnage of the city and made my way home. I found that one of The Order’s missionaries had converted my gated community, including my wife and my eight year old daughter.”

Shepherd mumbled, “Damn.”

“When I…refused…to be one with Voggoth, he sent my wife and my child with knives to kill me. Well…it seems my fear and my desire to live allowed me to…allowed me…”

Johnny could not say the words so Brewer did: “It wasn’t your fault. They weren’t your family any more. They died when the implants were put in their bodies.”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Brewer, you word it so elegantly. I fear you have not perceived the deeper truth; the truth revealed only after I examined the bodies.”

Shep understood. “You could have removed the implants. They weren’t too far gone.”

Reverend Johnny stared at his surgeon’s hands and squeezed them into clenched fists. The boom returned to his voice.

“At that moment of ultimate revelation, I went through a metamorphosis, hallelujah. A holy fire burned within and I found my hands were skilled at not only saving life, but destroying it, too. I took that missionary man…that disciple of The Order…and I crucified him on my front lawn. Since that day, I have but one purpose in my existence: to find and destroy every part of The Order. I have pursued and hurt them all the way from New England. I believe—if I may be so vain—they know and fear me.”

The Reverend fixed his eyes on the thinning fire and fell quiet.

Shep patted the man on the shoulder. “I reckon you’re right, Reverend.”

*

Jon’s rescue team left Hickory Run State Park before sunrise. They kept the turnpike on their left flank as they traveled south. However, he wanted to avoid the mile-long Lehigh Valley Tunnel that cut through the Blue Mountains at the border of Lehigh and Carbon counties. It seemed too perfect a den for any manner of nightmare.

Therefore, about an hour after dawn, the caravan turned southwest following Long Run road in hopes of crossing the Lehigh Valley River en route to a country road that—according to the map—would lead them up and across the mountain.

A hush fell over the convoy as they traveled with thick woodland to either side; perfect ambush country. To Jon’s ears, the clop-clop of horse hooves and the squeaks of rolling wagon wheels sounded like thunderous bass drums revealing their presence to the world.

Yet no ambush came. No creatures shadowed the convoy. The K9s remained calm in the back of his wagon.

That is when they noticed the sound. Shep first guessed it to be an electrical hum from power lines. Stonewall thought it a waterfall in the distance. Reverend Johnny suggested the steady drone of a big machine.

As Long Run road bent south along the banks of the Lehigh River, Jon halted the convoy for a morning rest. He decided the noise—louder now—came from the north.

Brewer shared Shepherd’s steed and, along with Stonewall, went off to investigate while leaving Reverend Johnny in charge of the parked convoy.

They followed a set of railroad tracks running alongside the river. As they moved north, the sound grew into a haunting melody. One so melancholy that, according to Stonewall, “the Devil himself could not stand to live in these parts.”

About one and a half miles north of the parked caravan, as the sound rose to the point of filling the air, the three dismounted and climbed a lightly forested hill.

As they neared the top, the noise sharpened to their ears: a wailing. A constant wailing. Not from one creature but from many: a chorus forming a continual cry of despair.

They reached the summit. Stretched before them lay the picturesque town of Jim Thorpe nestled between mountain peaks and named for one of the greatest athletes in history. Before Armageddon, Jim Thorpe had been a tourist attraction of antique shops, bookstores, pubs, and nostalgic train rides.

Except the shops, the stores, the pubs, and the restored railway station now hid beneath a white, stringy veil stretched over the entire town.

The noise came from the human residents of Jim Thorpe as they struggled—thousands of them—wiggling and swaying inside tightly wrapped cocoons. Their collective agony produced the cry of torment traveling the wind for miles.

“Oh my God,” Jon stammered.

Stonewall confessed, “I am at a loss.”

The devils responsible for this Hell walked on six-legs attached to crystal-white bodies as long as locomotives with one big yellow eye around a black pupil.

Jon stuttered, “I-If these things are feeding on them, w-why are the people alive?”

“Look at them, Sir,” Stonewall spoke. “Those are not arachnids. They are something far more… sinister. One gets the distinct impression that their victims are purposely kept alive.”

“Kept alive?” Shepherd’s voice never sounded so horrified.

Stonewall removed his hat and held it to his chest. “These vampires may in fact be feeding on their very torment. It seems there is no end to the horrors of our new world.”

Jon took a deep breath and tried to steady the tremble in his hands and voice.

“Let’s go.”

“Hold on,” Shep stopped him. “Ain’t we going to do something?”

“What can we do?”

Shep grit his teeth and said, “Drop a few mortar shells in there. Maybe drive them off.”

Jon stared at the living crypt below.

“There’s nothing we can do here. Maybe someday. But not today.”

*

From the pain came the screams filling his mind. Not from his lips, but far deeper: far more personal. The howling continued even though the actual torture to his body waited for The Order to prepare his next ordeal.

Trevor found tiny lifelines in a memory, or a feeling. For a few precious seconds here and there he could beat back the screams.

Once he summoned the sense of comfort and safety he had found as a little boy in his mother’s arms; the soft fabric of one of her sweaters as she hugged her young son provided a tactile connection to that moment. He heard her assuring, “Everything is all right.”

Yet her voice and the sensory recollection of her hug faded, replaced by the much more recent feel of swarming bugs digging at his skin…ripping…biting—SCREAMS.

As he lay alone in the chamber in some state several steps removed from sleep, Trevor summoned the sound of running water—a shower, a waterfall, the rhythm of rain on a rooftop—a sound that always gave him a sense of calm.

The calm shattered in the harsh memory of his legs…his torso…sucked into the torture-spider’s mouth; a false sensation of bones pulverized and shredded skin.

It may feel as if you’re being eaten, but rest assured that is only a feeling.

Screams again. His mind pulled into madness by the torment of his body.

Through the mental chaos, he reached for another lifeline: for Ashley, but instead grasped more torment in her disappearance from this Earth, and her disappearance from his heart.

Where he should have found fond memories of intimacy, he found an empty shell. Had he ever really loved her? If she were still alive, could she love what Armageddon had made him?

How could anyone love you now? Asked Ashley’s voice. You’re not human; you’re a monster; no different from the aliens you fight.

This lifeline turned into an anchor, driving him deeper into the pool of madness. The bore bugs on his legs; the working of that monstrous maw; the vitriol from Nina.

There. For a second. Another ray of light breaking through the clouds of madness.

Yes, Nina. What have they done to you? Can you still be saved?

He heard her voice now, muffled as if covered or, perhaps, calling from great distance: I’m still in here! No matter what they do, I’ll still be here!

“She’s just a lonely little girl,” he managed to speak aloud the words Lori had used to describe Nina Forest. “Just a lonely little girl.”

Like a drowning man at sea, the tide of misery dragged him under again. Screams. A choir of banshees battering down his sanity through the terrible suffering inflicted upon his body: the opposite of mind over matter in a very practical application.

Trevor Stone lay alone, bound in a tempest of insanity.

*

As they neared Allentown, the rescue team found it harder to stay hidden as the wilderness dissipated, replaced by crisscrossing highways, shopping centers, office complexes, and other relics of man’s paved civilization.

That afternoon they were caught in the open on Route 145 north of Whitehall by a mob of charging ghouls who fell to a volley of automatic rifle fire. The sounds of battle attracted scavengers resembling flying Octopuses. The things gorged on the dead ghouls.

Jon knew they neared The Order’s facility when they ran into a gathering flock of converts along the riverbank north of Allentown.

Reverend Johnny tore into the converts picking and choosing targets based on complexion. He saved several of the near-zombies and dispatched a chubby female missionary of Voggoth and her box of slug-like implants.

After, the exhausted convoy camped at the Lehigh Valley Airport.

During the night, they fought off several more waves of ghouls, a troll, and a cross between a grizzly bear and a horse.

Ames broke her arm when a shipping container serving as a battlement toppled. Johnny set the bone in a makeshift splint. Fortunately, Ames could still shoot.

Time, Jon knew, was not on their side. Did Trevor live? If so, for how much longer? Besides, they could not rest: not with the denizens of Allentown attacking every hour. They needed to find and assault The Order’s facility while they had the strength and supplies to do so.

Shortly after sunrise, he formed a scouting party and, with Reverend Johnny pointing the way as well as Stonewall and Shepherd in tow, found The Order’s base on the grounds of an industrial park. They watched from a rooftop far away.

Fifteen-foot organic green walls protected a variety of structures inside. Those structures included a pair of strange domes reaching two-stories tall, a number of small square buildings, and one particularly large rectangle.

Outside the grounds roamed Spider Sentries, robbed figures with swords, and varying numbers of human converts in raggedy civilian clothing filing in and out of the compound.

Jon lowered his binoculars and muttered, “Wow. So that’s it, huh?”

“Yes, that is it,” the Reverend answered.

Shep asked Brewer, “The question is, do you got a plan?”

“Yes, in fact, I’ve got a plan. Well, sort of an outline of a plan…kind of.”

Johnny: “Will it deliver destruction unto our enemies?”

“Or destruction unto us, I suppose.”

“The Order are an arrogant bunch,” Reverend Johnny knew. “They believe they can do whatever you can do, better. Think of it this way: if you pinch them, they will pinch you back but harder. If you kick them, they will kick you harder.”

Jon nodded. “I see.”

“That makes one of you,” Shepherd said. “So what have you got up your sleeve?”

“I plan to pinch them. And then dare them to pinch me back.”

Stonewall asked, “We’re going to—what’s the word?—‘goose’ them?”

“Mr. Brewer,” Reverend Johnny warned, “Have I fully conveyed the magnitude of the monstrosities that will be unleashed upon us?”

“On us, Reverend Johnny? No, no. On you. After all, they know you, right?”

Reverend Johnny swallowed hard and said, “May the Lord have mercy on my soul.”

Release

Jon’s forces stayed hidden as a ‘Chariot’ eased into the air from the courtyard within The Order’s outpost, and soared away to the west. He could not imagine a less aerodynamic airship.

Essentially a big square, The Order’s facility covered an area equal to four football fields. One large gate remained open on the north side to accommodate the influx of new recruits.

Inside that square waited two strange domes, several small buildings, and a main structure resembling a large shoebox with veins running through its green walls.

The fortress sat in the center of a massive parking lot. To the north, across from the open gate, stretched three hundred yards of dead cars and pavement followed by trees and grassland.

To the east and south lay nearly a square mile of empty blacktop so wide open that any attacking force from that direction would be dangerously exposed.

To the west, another fifty yards of parking lot then a grassy patch followed by squat, 1980’s vintage office buildings.

A sour, rotting odor emanated from the walls of The Order’s compound, cast about by blasts of a sharp, cold wind as if the facility caused a storm to brew, yet the white clouds in the afternoon sky suggested otherwise.

Three spider sentries patrolled outside the smelly walls and one inside. Nearly two dozen robbed figures roamed the grounds within the battlements; the Reverend identified them as ‘monks’, the lowliest of The Order’s ranks armed with small swords.

Behind the tree line to the north, Reverend Johnny checked his watch and announced, “The appointed hour has arrived, my friends,” to Stonewall McAllister, Sanchez, and Simms.

With a helping hand from above, Johnny hauled himself on to the back of Stonewall’s horse while struggling with a heavy M240-B machine gun.

Stonewall remarked, “Your hands must be endowed with incredible strength.”

“The Lord is my strength. Your hands smell like gasoline.”

“Indeed.”

“Let us begin this work in the name of the Father and deliver vengeance unto—”

“Tallyho!” Stonewall cut the sermon short.

The three horses galloped from cover screaming and whooping as they swerved between abandoned cars and trucks.

Sanchez and Simms fired shots from rifles in the direction of the compound. Stonewall deposited Reverend Johnny among the dead cars of the parking lot.

“But God will smash the heads of His enemies,” the Reverend shouted as he rested the heavy weapon on its tripod atop the hood of a compact car. “Crushing the skulls of those who love their guilty ways!”

A heavy rat-tat-tat-tat and a rain of jingling shell casings broke the calm afternoon. Johnny took aim at a Spider Sentry near the main gate more than one-hundred yards away. His machine gun—chattering and shaking fiercely—blew apart tires, windshields, and skipped bullets across the pavement.

The Sentry counter-attacked, marching forward on its creepy legs and firing the Gatling-like gun embedded in its faceplate. Streams of hard spores aimed first at the Reverend and then at the other riders who galloped amidst the dozens of dead cars. Those projectiles struck Simms’ horse, killing it and sending her tumbling to the pavement behind a burned-out mini van.

Stonewall harshly spurred his steed, tugged the reigns, and came about to her rescue. Shaken but unhurt, Simms climbed aboard his horse.

Sanchez closed on the Sentry and slapped its round head with rifle fire. Then Johnny found his mark as a bullet tore through a leg joint; the sentry wobbled in search of balance. The Reverend finished the creature off with one last burst.

“Feel my wrath, non-believer!”

A strange alarm erupted within the compound; it sounded like someone trying to speak through a mouth full of cotton balls.

As Sanchez incinerated another Spider Sentry with a firebomb, The Order’s main line of defense prepared to engage.

The domes inside the compound rose into the air…ten feet…twenty feet…forty feet…sixty feet high. They resembled building-sized mushrooms. Tendrils drooped from the undercarriage of the caps. A massive red and black eye hovered from a thick tether.

The dome—the mushroom cap above the dangling eye and the bush of tendrils—vibrated and then spun, releasing its own ordnance: a hundred flat discs—like saw blades—flew out from the monstrosity in a swarm of deadly Frisbees.

Stonewall, with Simms on his horse, ducked behind a toppled commercial delivery truck. He heard the sharp discs smack into the opposite side: thwang-thump; thwang-thump.

Sanchez galloped for the cover of an old Ford pickup with massive ‘monster truck’ tires. His horse made it. Sanchez’s body made it. His head did not.

Johnny—not in the creatures’ initial target zone—ran into clear view of the two mushroom-like Guardians, some one hundred and fifty yards away inside the compound. He locked onto the solitary, massive eye of the lead monster.

“I will make my arrows drunk with blood, and my sword will devour flesh – the blood of the slaughtered and the captives, and the heads of the enemy leaders!”

He let the machinegun rip, hitting the lead Guardian: it was too big to miss. However, such relatively small projectiles did little damage.

The stems of both the Guardians coiled tight like springs compressing. Johnny dropped his heavy weapon and ran away from the compound as if the devil spit fire on his ass. Stonewall turned his horse and retreated with Simms still sharing the ride.

The first Guardian created the necessary energy and literally sprung through the air.

If it were not so huge…if it were not so hideous in appearance… then perhaps it would have looked humorous; like a person in a potato sack race leaping toward the finish.

And oh, did it leap.

The Guardian ‘jumped’ through the open gate and crashed to the ground a few yards shy of where the Reverend recently stood. Its stem, which had grown a sort of pedestal at the bottom, crushed several parked cars and sent another pin wheeling through the air. The impact caused an earthquake to ripple across the lot. Reverend Johnny stumbled and fell…

…Jon Brewer watched from a damaged office building on the western flank. He said to Shep, who stood at his side, “Can you handle that thing?”

“Practiced for half an hour this ‘morn,” Shep tipped his head. “Want me to go get?”

“Haul ass.”

“Seems to me there ain’t any other way to go on these babies…”

…The Revered staggered to his feet and looked up at the massive red eye as it stooped to study its victim. Tendrils reached toward the man.

Jerry Shepherd rode to the rescue on one of the mutant hovercraft bikes. Shepherd zipped in, slowed, used one free arm to hoist Reverend Johnny on board, and swooped from the Guardian’s shadow.

The second Guardian leapt from the compound and landed next to the first. The impact, again, shook the earth; more cars tumbled away like kicked matchbox racers.

The eyes of the two mushroom-like monsters searched for targets. They watched as the hovercraft and horse—carrying humans—disappeared into the tree line.

The Guardians bent their “stems” again.

Something flew overhead: mortar rounds from behind the trees lobbed toward the outpost. The shells fell in front of the gate and exploded not with shrapnel but in white smoke.

The stems of the Guardians released, propelling them forward. The gigantic figures hurled through the air and somehow landed without tumbling at the north end of the parking lot.

Both domes whirled and flung deadly discs into the trees. Sliced evergreen branches fell like rain but the pine trees absorbed the volley.

Their attack frustrated, the Guardians bent their stalks again, waited for energy to build, then hurdled the tree line and landed in a field of dying grass and shrubs.

Reverend Johnny, on the far side of that field, dismounted Shep’s hovercraft and steadied his stance as the ground shook. When the tremor calmed, he stared across the field directly at the two large red eyes.

He lit a torch.

A smell of gasoline permeated the field.

Johnny quoted Two Kings: “If I am a man of God, let fire come down from heaven and destroy you and your fifty men!”

He dropped the torch.

An inferno erupted, fed by fuel and dry brush.

The Guardians were nearly as flammable; their massive frames charred in chutes of fire.

*

Jon Brewer and Boylen, riding hoverbikes, stopped at the wall of white smoke dropped from the mortars. The main gate waited on the other side of that smoky veil. Wind—seemingly growing in force—chipped away at the wall of white fast.

Behind them, beyond the tree line, rose two great pillars of black smoke announcing Reverend Johnny’s success.

So far, so good. Trevor would be proud.

Jon pulled a radio from his belt and transmitted, “Whiskey, get up here!”

Brewer lifted the hinged seat of the hovercraft and surveyed the ping-pong sized grenades filling the storage compartment.

He asked Boylen, “You ready?”

Boylen brandished one of the plasma rifles scavenged from the platypus soldiers. “Aye.”

Shepherd, also on a hoverbike, zipped to their side.

“The Rev took care of business.” A gust of wind sent wisps of smoke trailing into the sky. Holes appeared in the white screen. “Reckon we’d better get moving.”

The three rode through the smoke and entered the open gate, stopping inside the compound on one end of the courtyard. Robed figures—Monks—drew swords and raced to intercept. They retreated as Shep fired a burst from his assault rifle.

Across the courtyard, against the southern wall, sat the main building with a big sealed membrane: The Order’s equivalent of a door. Two spider sentries defended that door.

Jon dismounted his ride but kept a hand on the control panel.

Shep fired pot shots at scurrying monks and told Jon, “Do it fast before they realize there’s only three of us!”

Brewer pushed a switch next to the handlebars of the craft and the rider-less hoverbike drove off like a cruise missile. The spider sentries opened fire but to no avail; the bike covered the distance in a flash and crashed into the door.

The platypus’ grenades exploded en masse tearing apart the spider sentries and sending chunks of the building’s front flying across the compound.

The clatter of a horse-drawn wagon at speed came from behind. Whiskey—the older man originally from Stonewall’s group—worked the reigns furiously. The wooden wagon bounced as much as rolled, nearly throwing Gruder and the Grenadiers who rode in the back.

Jon shared Shep’s ride and followed Boylen to the blasted-open entrance, as did the wagon. As they neared, two monks—human faces overrun with green blotches—came out from within brandishing thin swords.

Boylen drove his hover bike directly into one, sending it sprawling with a body full of smashed bones. The Irishman avoided a jab by the second monk and blasted Voggoth’s minion with his plasma gun.

Jon and Shep dismounted just as the wagon clattered to a stop among the ruins of the destroyed membrane. The cadre of K9s onboard leapt out, led by Tyr and Odin.

The ground shook. Jon spun around and saw another of The Order’s defenses approach. This one stood ten feet tall, wore a cone-shaped shell of emerald and red, and moved on two thick gray legs. In some warped way, it resembled a walking Christmas tree, complete with a shiny gold star on top. In this case, the shiny star crackled with electricity.

Gruder—in the wagon—lit and threw a Molotov cocktail. The bottle smashed on the armor plating and spread fire giving the creature an amber glow but was otherwise ineffective.

A bolt of jagged lightning shot from the top of the cone-creature. Gruder jumped from the wagon for cover. The bolt caught him in mid-air. His body charred black instantly and broke into pieces when he hit the ground.

Boylen knelt near the front entrance and fired his plasma rifle at the beast. It responded with a bolt of lightning that slammed next to Boylen, stunning him for a moment.

Suddenly a stream of fire engulfed the cone-creature’s legs. It wobbled frantically and then the shiny orb that shot lightning exploded in a fury of sparks. The cone toppled and Reverend Johnny—flamethrower in hand and Stonewall on horseback at his side—yelled, “I told you, they don’t like a hot foot!”

Stonewall spurred his horse to the entrance where Jon asked, “Status?”

“Ms. Simms, Ames, and Mr. Tolbert are prepared to cover our retreat. Alas, Mr. Sanchez has fallen in battle.”

“Hold here,” Jon said. “We’re going in.”

“Like the rock of Gibraltar!” Johnny cried.

The Reverend, Stonewall, and Whiskey stood in a ring around the hole in the building.

Jon, Shep, and Boylen started in but the K9s moved quicker: Tyr, Odin, and the six other dogs poured through the gaping hole. Jon hoped their noses could overcome the horrid stink of the place and lock on to Trevor.

It felt as if they had entered a living creature, not a building. The corridors seemed more like arteries filled with humid, heavy air. A steady hum reverberated all around. Jon worried the building would gobble them up.

Light came from small orbs placed sporadically. Not bright, but enough to see.

The hall split into four directions. Monks approached from each. Bullets killed two; one ran away, the fourth fell to K9 teeth after skewering a Husky.

Tyr barked and Jon sensibly followed the dog’s lead to a large spherical chamber with doors—membranes—spaced along the walls.

The Elkhound approached one, sniffed, left for another, stiffed, then scratched frantically.

“There! Boylen, punch through it!”

Plasma rifle in hand, the big Irishman took aim at the door.

“Move outta there, dog,” he ordered and Tyr backed off as the blast hit. A circle of flames spread across the membrane and sliced open a small slit. “There’s your hole.”

“Let me give it a shot.” Shepherd went to work carving with a hunting knife.

Pellets hit the wall near Jon’s head.

A spider sentry approached. The drill bit on its face shot forward like a harpoon. Before it could pierce Jon’s chest, a blast from Boylen’s alien rifle disintegrated the round head and stole the power behind the shot.

“Ugly bastard, ain’t it?”

“I’m through!” Shepherd shouted.

Before any of the people could enter, Try, Odin, and two Rottweilers bound inside the cell. Jon heard them bark and growl. The remaining Siberian Huskies stayed outside forming a loose perimeter of sorts.

“I’ll hold here,” Shep said as he raised an M4 and struck down a charging monk.

Jon went through the slit cut in the door and Boylen followed.

They entered a large, dome-shaped room shrouded in darkness save for a solitary light high in the ceiling. Trevor lay atop what looked like a wide, flat tree trunk made of green roots. The K9s circled him, barking angrily with their snouts aimed toward the shadows overhead.

“Boylen, cover me.”

“Aye.”

Jon approached Trevor, slinging his rifle and pulling out a sharp knife when he spied the ropes—or something like ropes—binding his naked friend to the surface.

Boylen warned, “Somethin’ moving up there.”

Trevor lay with his eyes wide open staring up. Jon could not tell if he were alive or dead until he saw the slow rise of his chest.

A brilliant flash lit the room and an explosion of heat erupted. Jon instinctively covered his head as he felt a mass fall from above. A black mass of tangled legs.

The torture-spider missed Jon by a foot as it collapsed to the floor; a big burning hole punched in its abdomen by Boylen’s plasma rifle. The creature—attached to the ceiling by a pulsating thick tube—rolled and kicked, searching for balance. The Grenadiers moved in, tearing and biting with incredible ferocity.

“It almost had ya’,” Boylen said. “Tried to slip down right on top of your ‘ead.”

He turned to Trevor again and hacked his binds. A shudder of pain echoed around the room with each cut and a sick puss oozed from the tendrils as Jon sliced them.

“Trevor? It’s me, Jon. Can you hear me?”

Trevor did not move. He did not react.

Boylen helped Brewer move Trevor from the table and through the cut membrane.

“We’ve got what we came for,” Jon said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Shepherd corrected, “We got one more to find.”

Bangs and booms from the battle outside reached their ears. Jon felt the clock ticking.

“She put him here.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Shepherd said.

Odin ran to the men and barked. Apparently, he had—yet again—found her scent.

*

Nina paced under the solitary glowing orb lighting the small chamber. Her fists flexed closed and open. Her eyes darted around as if looking for something to fight.

Anger. Hatred. They burned in her but she found it difficult to remember why. Emotional energy without purpose, but the intensity of that energy took a physical toll: her muscles felt weak, her breath short, her thoughts unfocused.

She smelled something burning and spied a glowing spot on the door to her chamber. The glow turned into smoke and then a small hole formed. A knife poked through the hole and cut the membrane. A black and gray dog jumped through the opening. Jerry Shepherd and Jon Brewer followed.

Nina growled, “Get away from me. Get out of here!”

Plasma shots sounded from outside the door as Boylen fended off a threat.

“Oh, to hell with this,” Jon had little patience for Nina Forest at that moment.

Nina saw a rifle butt. Then she saw stars.

*

Trevor lay on a blanket underneath the cover of a white canopy, his eyes blinking occasionally but otherwise staring at nothing.

Jon Brewer stood overhead with Reverend Johnny at his side. Tyr lay at his Master’s feet watching. Waiting.

“He hasn’t said a damn thing since we pulled him out of there,” Brewer mumbled through clenched teeth. “What the hell is wrong? You found some bruises and sores, that’s it.”

“I fear he endured an ordeal far greater than anything I might detect. Sometimes the greatest trauma is to the mind.”

Jon turned sharp on the Reverend. “What the Hell does that mean?”

Reverend Johnny did nothing other than return Jon’s stare. The latter finally bowed his head, patted the Reverend on his shoulder, and the two walked out.

Crisp twilight air greeted them outside the white canopy strung between a wagon and a barren tree. Another wagon and another canopy waited on the other side of the camp, a camp assembled on dying grass next to a parking lot and the vertical kilns of the historic Coplay Cement Company.

Jon walked at a fast clip. The Reverend tried to keep pace.

Horses stood tied to tree branches; supplies lay scattered about; Ames struggled to start a fire and Whiskey drank from a bottle of something while tending to a bloody ankle wound.

“We can only wait, Mr. Brewer. And pray.”

“You pray, Rev. Pray I don’t get my hands on Nina Forest. She did this.”

“Ms. Forest is a victim in this plot, Jon,” he grabbed Brewer’s shoulder, spinning him around. “Your anger for what has been done to your friend is best directed at those responsible. Last I saw, those responsible were being consumed by the fire raging at their outpost.”

Jon huffed a big, frustrated breath.

“You think they’ll follow us?”

“Mr. Brewer, the blow we delivered unto their facility was mightier than we could have hoped. I believe they will abandon that outpost and start anew elsewhere.”

Tolbert—the large black man who once worked as a prison guard and who had covered their retreat from The Order’s compound earlier in the day—approached.

“She’s not happy about being tied up, I can tell you that,” he spoke to Johnny. “I’m not sure how much longer those ropes are going to hold.”

“Yes, it’s about time. I spotted the implant on her back. It should be easy enough to remove if the blasted girl will hold still.”

Brewer’s radio crackled to life. Stonewall McAllister’s voice called: “I say, is there anyone about who could guide us?”

Reverend Johnny and Tolbert headed to the other tent. Brewer raised his radio and walked the opposite direction toward a main road adjacent to the parking lot.

“Hello, McAllister? This is Brewer. Where you at?”

First static and then, “We are in the parking lot of a super market. There are several pairs of hungry eyes watching from the confines within.”

“Okay, yeah, look,” Jon walked faster. “We’re about a quarter mile—not even—northeast of you. Just follow Coplay Road and you’ll see the parking lot and our camp to your right.”

Brewer waited. First, he heard the clop-clop of the horses, then he saw Stonewall and Shepherd riding toward him.

“Anything?”

General Stonewall McAllister reported, “The rear guard is pleased to report nothing, Sir. Although we did see several scavenger-types heading toward The Order’s facility. Still,” Stonewall glanced at the fading sunlight overhead. “Sunset nears. No doubt, the nightmares will be out in full force. Perhaps we should endeavor to leave the city confines before then.”

“Can’t be helped. The team is exhausted. We’re better off trying to defend a position here than keep moving.”

“What about Nina?” Shep asked. “Did the Rev get that thing out of her yet?”

“He was just going to do that. He said it should be easy, though. Must’ve been some sort of sleeper implant that didn’t balloon up until activated. He grabbed those enzymes he needed from the facility before we bugged out; took the shit right out of the walls.”

Shep dismounted and handed the reigns to Cassy Simms who stood watch on that side of the camp. Like the others, her eyes sagged and she walked sluggishly. Pure exhaustion.

Stonewall split off to help Cassy with the horses while Jon and Shepherd approached Reverend Johnny’s tent. They found Tolbert outside on his hands and needs coughing.

He struggled to tell them, “I never saw her coming.”

Johnny stumbled from the tent with a hand grasping the back of his neck.

“I didn’t get it yet…ouch…blasted girl.”

Jon glanced to his left and saw Nina running toward the rows of ninety-foot tall vertical red brick kilns.

Tolbert mumbled between hacks: “My pistol…she’s got my side arm.”

Jon muttered a curse and joined Shepherd in pursuit…

…Nina darted between the old vertical furnaces that resembled smokestacks, dashing in and out of the long evening shadows. Her eyes worked back and forth, the handgun wobbled nervously; she stumbled every few steps. Finally, she navigated the maze and emerged at the rear of the tightly grouped structures. A short patch of woodland that might provide cover beckoned.

Nina sensed movement behind. She turned and pointed the gun at Jerry Shepherd.

“Nina,” Shep spoke with his hands raised palm-out. “You put that gun down, and get back here so we can fix you up.”

Brewer stood off and watched.

“All I can feel is anger. Is hate! Why is that?”

Shep said, “It’s that thing they put in you. We have to get it out.”

“Is it? Are you sure? All I’ve ever known…all I’ve ever done is hurt and kill. Is that all there is to me?”

He stepped closer. Just a little. She backed off.

“They used that against me! Programmed me like some kind of robot!”

Shep said, “Once we take that thing out of you, you’ll be fine. It will all be fine.”

“I…”

“No. You do it. Now.”

Nina batted her eyes and cast them to the ground in an expression of guilt, dejection, and embarrassment, like a contrite teenager accepting punishment.

Shepherd grabbed the hand holding the pistol. He slowly twisted her wrist. Nina did not fight but she did not willingly surrender the gun, either. She grunted as the older man forced the weapon from her grasp.

Nina staggered to one knee and held her wrist.

“Trust me, Nina. Whatever that thing has done to you, you still know you can trust me.”

She stood again, sheepishly, and let Shepherd lead her away…

…Except for Tyr, Trevor lay alone on a blanket under the white canopy hastily hung between a tree limb and a wagon. His expression did not change. His eyes saw, but not the tent: they saw hours of torment. They saw the torture-spider and bore bugs. The instruments of anguish long gone but the feeling remained; ingrained in the memory of his skin and his nerves and the pain centers of his brain.

A visitor entered the tent. Tyr raised his head but lowered it just as fast.

The Old Man sat on the ground and crossed his legs.

“Dirty pool,” he said in a hushed voice. “That’s what this is, Trevor. The rest of us have been playin’ by those rules but it seems some think they don’t need to be following the script. And that’s how we got here, Trev. Nothing right about this. No, Sir.”

Trevor did not respond.

“Can you even hear me? I ‘spect not. Not over the sound of all them screams. Yeah, I can hear them. Not a scratch on the outside, but your insides are more scrambled than an omelet, ain’t that so? Your soldier-girl, they’re yanking that slug-thing out of her right now and she’ll probably be right as rain. But what they put in you…well, ain’t no cure for that.”

The Old Man held his hands over Trevor’s body, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath…but the breath sucked in something other than oxygen.

“A man can take a lot of pain, but what they did to you…you can still feel all of it, can’t you? That was the point. Get to your mind through this body of yours. Trevor—you listen to me—this wasn’t supposed to go like this. Ole’ Voggoth pulled a fast one. Now I can go and cry about him breakin’ them rules but by the time that gets all sorted out this thing would be done and over with you on the sidelines. So here’s what we’re going to do, Trev. We’re going to right the ship, as it were. We’re going to settle the score. Now I can’t make the nightmares go away; they’re a part of you from now on. But I can dull them a little. Make them bad dreams: old, old memories. Take away the bite, as it were.”

The Old Man sat next to Trevor for several minutes, but before he faded away, Trevor’s eyes slid shut and he slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.

*

The raiding party traveled for four nights to reach home. Trevor spent most of that journey asleep in the rear of a wagon. For him, the trip took the form of flashes from explosions and flares, and sounds from gunshots and roars.

He did not see the statue-like stone soldiers, the flying flower things, or the hippopotamus monsters with eyes on stalks.

Late in the afternoon of November 22, Jon Brewer’s successful rescue party arrived at the main gates of the estate. There the wounded, bruised, but ultimately victorious group received a welcome deserving of heroes.

To the surprise of all—particularly the rescue party—Trevor stood and walked off the wagon under his own power. He had not spoken a word for four days; Reverend Johnny figured he was locked into a waking coma of some kind, or completely insane. However, when the wagon stopped in the driveway, Trevor Stone stood and walked—with a stumble—into the mansion.

Trevor offered no explanation because he had none; he did not know how he had escaped the prison of screams in his mind.

Eventually, however, night came. Trevor would spend those nights alone in his bed, haunted by images of spidery shadows slinking along dark ceilings; of sickly mouths gnawing; of deadly swarms creeping. More than once he woke with a scream muffled behind locked lips and sweat dripping from every pore on his trembling skin. Yet they were only dreams, and they held little power over him. As if, perhaps, he had imagined the whole ordeal.

While the people welcomed Trevor home as a hero they eyed Nina with suspicion, no matter how many times Johnny proclaimed her free of implants.

Nina slipped away quietly to the sanctuary of her apartment, and there she stayed for a long time.

Storm

Jon Brewer faced his biggest decision of the conflict. His next move would determine victory or defeat.

A field blanketed in dead leaves served as the battleground. Overhead a blue sky, but in the distance gathering clouds suggesting that the surprising warmth of the afternoon was a prologue to an evening of storms.

But that would be later. For now, all depended on Jon’s next move.

He shared his plan with his unit: Tolbert did not like the idea but Benny Duda (Stonewall’s 12-year-old bugle boy) and Kristy Kaufman appreciated the creativity of the strategy and felt certain the enemy would be taken by surprise.

Jon moved his troops forward and grabbed the oblong, air-filled weapon from the ground.

Across the line of scrimmage waited the enemy: Dante Jones in front of Jon; Dustin McBride guarded Benny Duda; Woody “Bear” Ross squared off against Tolbert; and Kristy had drawn coverage from Anita Nehru.

Jon shouted, “Hut one! Hut two! Hike!”

He pulled the football close to his chest and dropped three steps back.

Dante Jones counted fast: “One-Mississippi…two Mississippi…”

Kristy ran the perfect buttonhook, exactly as diagramed in the dirt. Jon fired the ball just above the outstretched arm of Anita Nehru. Kristy bobbled it but held on.

Dustin McBride abandoned his coverage of Duda and lunged to tag the receiver. Tolbert, downfield by the end zone, engaged the larger Ross with a blocking move.

Kristy feinted to run but—as planned—flipped the ball to Benny Duda.

The unexpected move left Benny clear to race for the end zone…except Woody Ross threw Tolbert aside and blocked the kid’s path.

The freckle-faced 12-year-old gasped. Ross, a first-round draft pick out of the University of Miami and one-time starting strong side linebacker for the Washington Redskins, stood between Duda and the winning touchdown.

Bear played it perfect. He stomped his feet, snarled, then let howl a cry of battle.

Duda yelled, “Ooo…shhhhhh….iiiiiii…ttttt…”

Ross reached to make the two-hand touch tag and…swatted air.

Duda spun away and pranced between the two bushes marking the endzone. The resulting celebration included knocking knees then spinning the ball on the ground and shooting it with pretend guns.

Woody “Bear” Ross stood alone in the field, the subject of intense scrutiny from the handful of people who played the role of the roaring crowd.

“God damn it, I won a national championship.” He shook his head and smiled in an “awe shucks” sort of way. “Hey Bugle Boy!” Ross yelled with false fierceness. “Let’s play tackle!”

Benny’s eyes grew wide and frightened as Ross ran at him like a charging bull. The kid raced off through the woods and down the slope to the parking lot behind the Methodist Church.

Trevor and Lori Brewer, standing amongst the dissipating crowd of spectators, laughed at the sight as they walked across the field. Jon joined them.

“Here comes Coach Lombardi,” Stone, limping, joked.

“Chuck Knoll,” the lifetime Steelers fan corrected.

Tyr and several other K9s trailed Trevor and the Brewers. The dogs did not understand football. They did not understand Thanksgiving either, and they certainly could not comprehend how a feast and a sport were so closely tied together. However, they did understand that hunting parties had been under special orders to catch wild turkeys.

Three days had past since Trevor’s return. During that time, Omar worked wonders with the power systems and K9 patrols indicated the surrounding area lacked any major threats. Add in the stories of victory brought home by the returning heroes and Trevor could understand why confidence once again soared.

Only one thing felt out of place.

Nina Forest barely saw or spoke to anyone, spending most of her time hidden away in her apartment above the A-Frame’s garage. She even changed her schedule so that she often ate in an empty dining hall.

As the trio left behind the football field, Trevor’s thoughts turned to the missing woman.

“She won’t see me,” Lori explained. “I’ve tried, but she won’t talk to me. She won’t even talk to Shep. I think the only one she talks to is your dog, Odin. I see him following her around everywhere but that’s about it.”

Trevor nodded and, as if trying to convince himself, said, “She’ll be at dinner tonight. She’ll be there.”

Two hours after Benny Duda scored the winning touchdown on the gridiron, the community gathered for a Thanksgiving feast spread out among the rooms of the mansion. The only ones missing were the residents of the farms and Nina Forest.

They dined on slow-roasted wild turkey, instant mashed potatoes, stale “Stove Top” stuffing, as well as cranberries and vegetables from cans.

Everyone loved it.

They uncorked a dozen bottles of wine and enjoyed a Champagne toast.

For a couple of hours things felt…normal. Not even the approaching thunderstorms could ruin the evening.

Dinner did not so much end as fade away. Some stayed behind, such as Danny Washburn who desperately hit on Cassy Simms, and Evan Godfrey who cornered a few of the new arrivals to discuss ‘politics’.

Trevor, with Tyr by his side, left the church basement and walked alone in the darkness toward the mansion. A cold breeze ruffled his windbreaker. A flash of heavenly fireworks illuminated the churning waters of the lake.

Odin the Elkhound intercepted Trevor at the main gate and presented his Master with disturbing news.

Trevor listened and then turned north on the perimeter road as fast as his wounded legs would allow. The dogs followed at a discreet distance. The lightning flashed again over the lake; a rumble of thunder shook the night.

He followed the black top driveway on the grounds of the A-Frame house. He stopped outside of the garage where a solitary security light generated a circle of illumination around a Jeep Grand Cherokee, the one Trevor had hot-wired to evacuated Shepherd from the helicopter crash long ago.

Nina, dressed in her tactical outfit, descended the stairs from her apartment. She carried a duffel bag over her shoulder and held a camouflage jacket in her hands.

“What are you doing?”

She threw the bag and jacket in the rear seat of the Jeep.

“I’m leaving. I figured no one had used this Jeep in a while so I thought I’d take it.”

“No you’re not.”

She sighed and retrieved her bag and jacket from the rear seat.

“Okay then, I’ll walk.”

“Why do you want to leave?”

Nina stopped.

She placed the bag on the ground with her jacket on top. Her eyes scanned everywhere but at him and she gently bit her lower lip.

A flash of lightning strobed the area. Thunder followed two seconds later.

“I don’t belong here.”

“What? What the hell makes you say that?”

“I’m not like everyone else. I don’t fit in.”

He told her, “We need you to stay. I want you to stay.”

“After everything I did? I can’t believe you mean that.”

He took a hesitant step forward. She finally glanced—briefly—at him.

More lightning. More grumbles of thunder. The wind whipped faster. The storm prepared to break.

“Damn it, Nina, what are you afraid of?”

“Afraid? I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Then why the hell are you running? That’s what you’re doing, you know. Running away. You belong here more than anyone else does.”

“I don’t deserve to be here! You…Lori…all of you… you all had lives before this. You all had…had something else. But you said it yourself; all I know is killing. And you said that this isn’t about just killing; it’s about saving. Since I’ve been here, I haven’t saved anyone. I’ve just killed. It’s all I know.” The first rain drops tap-tap-tapped on the blacktop. “And those sons a bitches, they were able to use me because of that!”

He slipped in, “That wasn’t your fault.”

“After what they did to you…and I stood there and let them do it…and before all that, to think that I thought that maybe we—maybe you and I—” she stumbled about, paused, then threw away the thought. “That’s why I have to go. I can go and kill on my own, without putting you or anyone else in danger.”

BOOM!

The lightning and thunder struck simultaneously.

“Nina…”

The rain fell in sheets.

She looked at him and shouted, “What is it you want from me? I’m sorry, damn it. There, I said it! I’m sorry I betrayed you. Now let me go! Just forget about me!”

Trevor yelled above the roar, “I can’t do that!”

The rain poured over them: a chilling rain. Her blond hair soaked and drooped. Sparkling droplets covered his windbreaker. Puddles formed across the black top.

“I can’t do that. I can’t forget about you, Nina. And I can’t let you run away.”

“I have to…I don’t fit in…I don’t know anything but fighting and killing.”

“That’s not what you’re running from.”

The rain became a veil of water hanging in the glow of the security light.

He told her, “You’ve been hard and tough all your life and you’ve never run away before. You’re afraid of finding that there’s more inside. What is it you feel now? Guilt? Have you ever felt guilt before?”

She did not answer.

“I told you once that you were looking for something. I promised to tell you when the time was right.”

The rain slammed against the pavement in a sea of water explosions creating a constant, drowning roar. Trevor felt a cold shiver shake his spine as the deluge poured upon him. The two dogs sat on the sidelines, their gray and black hair soaked through.

Nina ran the back of her hand across her face to clear a splash from her cheek.

Trevor dared a step closer.

“All your life you’ve wondered why you were different,” he held his hands palms up as he spoke. “Why didn’t you fit in? Why weren’t you like the other kids? As you grew up, you watched what the other girls did and you copied them. You imitated them so that maybe they wouldn’t notice how different you were. But it was a lie.”

A bolt of lightning arced overhead. A crackle of thunder boomed in response.

“When you were a woman, you went out with the boys. Sometimes…sometimes you let them…let them touch you. Let them do things…things they wanted to do. You hoped that if you let them then maybe you would feel something. But each time it was empty. Just empty feelings that faded away as fast as they came. And all that made you feel more alone.”

Nina bowed her head.

“The one thing you were sure of was that you knew how to fight. You had strength. Courage. Speed. And when people saw that in you… when they saw such a beautiful woman…”

She raised her eyes at the word ‘beautiful’.

“…who was so strong and tough, they wondered; they wondered what had happened to make you that way. Was your father abusive? Or maybe you didn’t have a father. Or maybe when you were young some man hurt you…forced you…attacked you.”

Beads of water covered his outstretched palms. Wet curls of hair sagged over her eyes.

“They figured there had to be a reason because no girl would choose to be that way. No girl was naturally like how you were.”

Nina burst, “There wasn’t anything! I loved my parents! I had a good family!”

“You grew up feeling different from the beginning. It didn’t take some outsider to make you who you are. You were that way from the start.”

“I’m not like other people. I’m a monster…I don’t belong.”

“You’ve been waiting, Nina,” he pushed on through the drenching shower. “You’ve been waiting all your life for now. There’s more to you than fighting and killing, but it has been bottled inside waiting for all of this to happen,” he waved his arms in the rain in reference to the new world in which they lived. “You’re like me but I had everything else before Armageddon. I had a life and love and hope. But I wasn’t a fighter. I wasn’t a leader. All of that was in me but I didn’t know it. This new world released it so I could do what I have to do.”

“You’re not making sense! I—I’m leaving,” she took a step but he blocked her escape.

“You’re not running away, Nina. I won’t let you. You’ve been looking all your life for the reason why you are who you are. That reason is right here…right now. If you embrace it, it will release the rest of you. You can find the person—the woman—inside of you without giving up the fighter. You can be whole, Nina.”

The storm matched light with sound again.

“You’ve been looking for a cause; for a leader to follow. I offer myself as that leader. It’s why I’m here. It’s my purpose.”

She staggered in the downpour, “I betrayed you!”

“Nina…I forgive you.”

“Don’t! Don’t say that!”

“We need you. I need you, Nina. I need you to help me remember who I am. I need you to make this whole thing work. It falls apart without you.”

“That’s a lie!” She wiped a wet curl from her eyes. “You don’t need me. You’re strong. You’re tough. You know everything you need to know.”

“No I’m not. I’m not the toughest. That’s Jon. I’m sure as hell not the smartest. That’s Omar. I’m not the strongest. That’s you, Nina. You’re my strength. Stay here and we can find out what else you are. I can help you. We can all help you.”

She did not speak.

“I’m a Jack of all Trades; a master of none,” he told her because he knew there were limits to what he could “pick up” and how well he could do those things.

Trevor slowly, deliberately, knelt in front of her, first one knee then the other.

He asked, “What more can I do?”

It shocked her to see him on his knees.

“Stop it! Get up! You’re the leader. Leaders don’t get on their knees!”

“That’s what I’ve learned, Nina. Leaders do anything for the cause. It isn’t about ego; it’s not about strength. It’s about sacrifice. So I’m on my knees because I need you to stay. What will it take? I will humble myself. I will do whatever it takes to convince you because without you, we fail. Without you, I fail.”

The puddle on the ground soaked through his pants. The rain splashed on his shoulders.

She stared at Trevor. She remembered the feelings that had been rising in her before the parasite had taken control. She remembered wanting to understand him; wanting to catch a glimpse of him. How she felt funny when he walked in the room.

Of course now all of that was gone. The feelings remained but she could never share them after betraying him so. She could never have what she feared her heart wanted.

Nevertheless, at that moment she understood those feelings clearly.

He found strength when he had needed to be strong. He fought when he had needed to fight. He had made mistakes, but not let them stop him. He had been decisive when decisiveness was called for; other times he had sought advice.

And at that moment, he humbled himself on his knees. He would disgrace himself. Shame himself. Kneel in a puddle of cold rain all for the sake of the great cause. No arrogance, no sense of self-importance. Only an understanding that he had one purpose in life, the way she felt she had only one purpose in life.

Trevor said through the blinding storm, “You deserve to be here more than any of us, because you have been ready for this moment all your life. You were strong before, while most of us are just finding that strength now. Stay here, with me. With us. Stay here and I promise I’ll help you find out more about who you are. Nina, I…”

The word came out of nowhere. He stopped, pushed it back, and hid it. He should not feel that way. The ghost of Ashley would not allow it. He could not let Nina go but he could not say what he wanted to say, either.

“I need you to stay,” came the new words.

He feared she would walk away at that moment. Walk away and leave him kneeling in the rain. None of the tortures of The Order…none of the monsters of the new reality…none of them scared him as much as the thought of her disappearing into the night forever.

But she remained.

Nina held a hand to him. He grasped it and she lifted him to his feet.

The rain drove with a violent fury. The hair on both their heads had long since turned to soaking wet mops.

She searched his eyes…then bowed her head.

“I will stay,” she spoke softly but with surety. “I will follow you. Whatever you tell me to do, I will do it. I am yours to command. I understand, now. I understand why Shep wanted to stay. I understand why people come from all around to find hope here. They do it because of you. Because of what you are. I will die for you. I will kill for you. Because you are truly a leader. You are my leader.”

They stood there, facing one another as the rain poured, the lightning flashed, and the thunder boomed.

The storm continued through, bringing change on its winds.

Redcoats

Despite a sheepskin jacket, Evan Godfrey shivered as he followed the driveway toward the main gate on his way to the church for breakfast. Puffy flurries drifted from the sky.

Danny Washburn stood at the gate serving the last minutes of overnight guard duty.

A heavy thump-thump grabbed the attention of both men. Washburn pointed to an Apache helicopter racing inbound over the lake and said, “Damn, she’s coming in hot.”

Godfrey stood next to the former ATF agent. “Is it Trevor?”

“Nina Forest. She went out on a recon flight at dawn.”

The air vibrated with a deep chopping from the rotors as the intimidating fighter neared.

Godfrey said, “Um, isn’t it crazy to let her fly around with that much fire power? Wasn’t she playing for the other team last week?”

“Hey, sport, that girl saved your ass. If Trevor is cool with it, then I’m cool with it.”

“Well…sport, I know a lot of people around here who are keeping an extra eye on her.”

“I guess you’d be the one to know about that. You’re always off in a corner whispering about something.”

The downdraft from the Apache scattered snowflakes as it descended to the landing pad. Washburn saw a black burn mark—a wound—on the side of the helicopter.

Nina Forest—in a green flight suit—exited the craft. She walked fast into the mansion, through the first floor, up the stairs, and into to the Command Center where Trevor sat.

“Listen, we’ve got a problem. A big friggin’ problem.”

*

“Well, looky here,” Shepherd handed his binoculars to Stonewall. “This ain’t good.”

Those two—along with three others—huddled on the roof of the old Lion Brewery building—circa 1905—just off the Cross Valley expressway. Their position afforded a clear view of the elevated, northeastern section of Wilkes-Barre: the section with rows of retail outlets looming above the expressway not far from the junction with Interstate 81.

Nina said, “Listen, that’s just the first of them. The rest are marching down from the top of the mountain, up there by—what’s the name of that place again?”

“Bear Creek.” Trevor answered in frosted breath. Despite brilliant sunshine, the day remained cold with snow flurries floating about.

“Coming in from the east,” Jon Brewer said.

A half-mile from Trevor’s group past the lanes of Wilkes-Barre Boulevard, across railroad tracks, and up a grassy slope assembled an army: a high-tech well-organized military force securing a large parking lot once shared by two big box stores (one electronics, the other household merchandise). That lot occupied a prominent position on a ridge overlooking the heart of the valley.

“Okay, let’s break this down,” Trevor focused. “What do we got here?”

Nina said, “I counted four formations supported by ground vehicles. My radar picked up air borne targets, too, but I didn’t get a visual on those.”

“That’s not much help,” Jon’s voice carried an edge. Perhaps the fading bruise on her chin served as a scarlet letter. “How many troops in those formations? What are we looking at?”

“I’m just saying, they were traveling in four groups. Say, four regiments. Two of those groups are there now.”

Stonewall said, “While I cannot be sure without closer examination, I would estimate two hundred mustering there as we speak.”

Trevor took mental notes for another page in the Hostiles Database: Bipedal humanoids wearing red uniforms with white trim and full-head helmets looking one part Buck Rogers and one part medieval knight. They stood larger than the typical human: maybe six and a half feet on average with wider hips. Not chubby, just bigger.

“Jon,” Trevor said, “I want you to put everything out of your mind for a moment.”

“What?”

“I want you to forget about how you don’t trust Nina. Don’t worry about how we’re going to fight these guys. Just look and tell me what you see.”

Jon hesitated until his mind caught pace with Trevor’s words. He sighed and put the binoculars to his eyes.

Trevor had learned much about Jon Brewer. The man had expertly prepared the assault on The Order’s base and—with Stonewall and Shepherd—outfought or outmaneuvered an untold number of hostiles on his way to and from Allentown with minimal casualties.

During his stint in the military, Jon learned strategy and tactics but those strategies and tactics aimed to fight the armies of man’s old world. Now Jon developed a feel for the ebb and flow of this changed reality and applied those old approaches in new ways: exactly what would be needed for the battles to come. Jon was the first in a new generation of Generals.

“Okay. They’re very organized. Look how they fall in formation, get their orders, then go right to work on putting things together and such.”

The aliens assembled temporary shelters constructed from a tan, flexible material. It appeared one of the shelters would serve as a command post.

“You can see their officers.”

Gold emblems decorated the collars of about one in every ten of the aliens and two others wore flashy white capes.

“They’re strong. If Nina is right, these guys have marched for miles already this morning and I haven’t seen them take a rest. They’re putting together their base camp without a break.”

Stonewall said, “If I may, these foot soldiers appear to be armed with a rifle of some sort. Yet I would expect a force of this size to be supported by heavier guns.”

Nina answered, “Listen, I saw some vehicles with the rest of the army. They looked like they could be artillery or APCs. They hit my chopper with heavy ground fire, not small arms. If I hadn’t dodged I wouldn’t be around to be a pain in Jon’s ass.”

Jon glanced at her, expecting to see a crinkled brow. Instead, he saw the hint of a smile.

“So there’s more coming,” Trevor guessed. “With support weapons.”

Shepherd said, “We need to figure out where they’re heading. Maybe they’ll pass us by.”

“Wait a sec,” Jon placed the binoculars over his eyes again. “Check this out.”

A mob of ghouls—maybe twenty-five—lumbered toward the encampment. One of the alien sentries raised the alarm.

The soldiers did not panic: they followed the orders of their officers in a calm, professional manner. Two squads of ten formed to face the threat in rows. They stood perfectly rigid despite the horrid roars and snarls of the charging monsters.

An officer barked a command. After a short pause, the first line of soldiers fired their alien rifles. A volley of energy bolts sent a storm of destruction into the mass of ghouls. The blasts shattered the monsters into sandy grains, instantly cutting the attacking number in half.

Such firepower would have dissuaded intelligent beings, but not mindless Ghouls. What remained of the horde surged forward.

The alien officer signaled again and, after another brief pause, the second of the two rows of red-clad soldiers fired. The remaining ghouls fell into dusty shards.

Stonewall gasped, “I say, very…efficient.”

Jon noted, “Seems their weapons have some kind of charge-up…hmmm…”

Shepherd said, “Them fellas didn’t even flinch. These things are pros.”

“Like Redcoats,” Jon thought aloud.

“I’m sorry, my hearing failed me,” Stonewall tilted his head. “Could you repeat that?”

“The way they fight, the way they’re dressed,” Brewer explained. “Reminds me of the British Redcoats in colonial days. Disciplined, calm, and maximum firepower.”

“Interesting,” Trevor said. “We’ll have to remember that.”

“Yeah, that’s wonderful and all but maybe we should get off this roof top.” Nina accentuated her warning with a point to the sky.

A pair of specks floated in from the horizon, flying toward the Redcoats’ assembly area.

Trevor and company hid inside the brewery and watched through broken windows.

At first glance, they resembled flying bricks hovering in the air without wings or rotors or aerodynamics at all. Closer observation revealed a triangular nose cone with rounded edges and a thin, wide window pointing forward. Next came a rectangular body that probably served as a passenger or payload compartment. At each corner sat a pod sporting flat, round landing gear. A pair of baffles sprouted from the rear, but they did not emit any smoke or exhaust.

The crafts wore red color with small white pin stripes.

One of the things descended vertically into the alien camp.

“How does something like that fly? No wings, nothin’,” Shep wondered.

The second ship headed west emitting a steady hum as it flew.

It mesmerized Trevor. The design defied the rules of flight yet it moved effortlessly: as graceful as an eagle to Trevor’s eye.

The ship passed over the Cross Valley Expressway, banked, then stopped in mid air where it held steady for a minute before descending, vertically, out of sight.

Trevor said, “It’s landing by the river. Let’s go.”

*

Eschewing their hover bikes and Humvees, the group proceeded to the river on foot and found a hiding spot along the bank among dead bushes and a cluster of trees.

The flying machine parked on the riverbank amidst mud and scattered snowflakes. Two Redcoats stood watch while two more removed their helmets and worked near one of the ship’s landing pods.

Trevor, through binoculars, examined the aliens: big round black eyes, thin noses, and small mouths, ironically resembling the extraterrestrials found in tabloids in the days when aliens had yet to make the cover of The New York Times.

One alien extended a large hose from the ship toward the river and waited while the second operated a hand held device in a manner that suggested testing the water.

Trevor pondered the sight. “Now this is interesting.”

“What do you want me to do?” Nina craved orders.

Trevor realized how close she stood. He could see tiny puffs of white from the cold of her breath…from between her lips.

“Nothing, yet. For now, we watch.”

Apparently unsatisfied, the alien doing the testing directed the other to retract the hose. Moments later, they flew away.

*

It took Trevor more than half an hour to return to the estate via hoverbike due to a diving Devilbat trying to snag him as a snack. Moments after arriving home, K9s raised the alarm: one of the alien ships appeared over the eastern edge of the lake. It landed in the parking lot of a marina filled with decaying boats.

Trevor led three K9s, Danny Washburn, and Omar Nehru to a good spying point on a hillside overlooking the marina.

Yet again, the aliens extended a hose from a landing pod but this time actually sucked water from the lake. After a half-hour of siphoning, the craft lifted off, doing so without any visible rockets and flew away in the direction from whence it came.

Omar Nehru had no doubts about what they had witnessed. “Oh, my goodness gracious, excited this is making me.”

Washburn joked, “I think Hajji here has a hard-on over this.”

“Thank you so kindly for sharing your wits, but it would be fair to say that I am excited, yes. I believe we just watched a hydrogen-powered vehicle.”

“Hydrogen powered?” Trevor repeated.

Omar beamed. “I would be imagining that water vapor is the only byproduct. That is why they went to the river as you were telling me and then flew all the way here.”

Trevor—suddenly agitated—pressed, “You can’t be sure of that.”

“No, I am not sure but it is what I am thinking.”

Washburn jumped in, “What? Slow down. What are you guys talking about?”

Omar answered, “Perhaps Mr. Washburn is one who is familiar with the term ‘H2O’? That is being water and the ‘h’ is for hydrogen.”

“So what does that mean to us?”

Trevor sighed. “It means we’re sitting on one big fuel dump.”

*

Trevor stood in the Command Center with Jon, Stonewall, and Nina discussing what to do next as evening descended over what had turned into a worrisome day. Shepherd remained on the outskirts of Wilkes-Barre with a surveillance team, watching the Redcoats.

Jon dropped a pile of digital photographs on the desktop. “So far we count five of those ships at the assembly area. I get the feeling they may be low on fuel or something.”

Nina asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’d have them in the air all the time. Anyway, two more formations arrived this afternoon. We put their number now at about four hundred. They’ve set up check points on all approaches to their position.”

Stonewall said, “These gentlemen like to do things en mass. We have not observed any skirmish parties or pickets. They simply have chosen their hard points and set up camp.”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Nina thought out loud. “I’m just saying, these guys pack a punch with their rifles.”

“Then there are the big guns,” Jon led.

Trevor rummaged through the photos. The ‘big guns’ included four large, self-propelled concave objects resembling upside-down silver bowls with indents on top. Artillery, no doubt.

Two “big guns” of a different design rode on a hovering, flat vehicle. The weapons sported long, slim barrels surrounded by smaller ports and gears with a seat at one end.

Jon pointed to a photo of one of these and explained, “This is their version of an anti-aircraft gun. Probably what hit Nina and let me tell you,” he glanced at the blond, “you’re lucky your chopper wasn’t vaporized. Trev, remember that big dragonfly thing that scooped up the Troll in Plymouth? It showed up along the riverbank a good three-quarters mile away from the Redcoats’ base. Well one of these guns sent out like a volley of energy balls or something. Broke that thing into a zillion pieces. Just…wow.”

Nina said what they all realized: “So much for using choppers.”

Stonewall added, “Pity. Those marvelous machines haven’t contributed much as of yet.”

Jon flashed a photo of a large hovering cylinder vehicle. “I’m thinking these are fuel tankers of some kind. Probably carrying water for the air ships and the soldiers.”

Stonewall said, “One must wonder, what plans they are brewing.”

Jon tried to answer that question: “If we’re right that they’re coming to the lake, then I think they’ll hunker down overnight then at first light tomorrow march straight here.”

Nina added, “Their ships have been scouting the expressway.”

“So we need to fight them,” Trevor felt a headache coming fast and hard.

Stonewall injected some reality: “I enjoy a romantic struggle against insurmountable odds as much as the next poet. Nevertheless, the idea of outright suicide is quite distasteful. We are facing an armada of several hundred well-armed professional soldiers supported by aircraft and artillery. If we arm every living soul in this camp how many would we muster?”

Trevor sighed and went through a mental calculation: “Throw out kids, injured and sick…strip everyone from the farms…throw in the new arrivals…we would probably have about forty to fifty good fighters.”

“Ahhh,” Stonewall made his point. “Ten to one odds? My, the poets would run out of adjectives! How many words are there in the thesaurus next to ‘futile?’”

Jon said, “That’s not helping.”

“Do not mistake my candor for reluctance. I shall lead another Pickett’s charge if so ordered. Yet I believe we must earnestly discuss the truth of the matter.”

Stonewall and Jon began to ‘discuss’ the matter in sharp words.

Trevor ignored them and studied the pictures of the infantry formations, the artillery, the air ships, and the alien General wearing a gold cape and fancy emblems.

Nina watched Trevor’s intense stare at the photographs. She saw an idea forming in his mind. She walked to him and whispered, “What is it?”

Her soft voice distracted him; sent a shiver through him.

When he re-focused, he smiled. A big, big smile.

“Gentlemen,” he stopped Jon and Stonewall’s argument. “I suppose we’re just going to have to enlist a few more fighters to our side.”

“Oh?” Stonewall responded. “Do tell, where shall we begin recruiting?”

“In Wilkes-Barre. Downtown, most likely.”

Jon coughed as if choking on Trevor’s announcement.

“Um…you want the things downtown to attack the Redcoats?”

“Not exactly,” Trevor referred to the photographs. “Look at their brilliant red uniforms and the sparkling gold on their lapels. Look at how they march and fight. Oh, what an arrogant bunch they are! Why, they see themselves as invincible.”

Jon countered, “They’ve got firepower.”

“So did the English during the Revolution. So did America in Vietnam. The problem in both cases is that the other guy didn’t fight by the same rules.”

Stonewall grinned. “I believe you’re formulating something dangerous and exciting.”

Trevor spent several minutes sharing the first part of his plan.

“Oh, wonderful!” Stonewall reacted. “Then it is to be mass suicide after all! Pure genius!”

“Once their main forces are engaged, Jon’s strike team takes out their command and control. You’ll need to take Omar with you to figure out those guns.”

Nina asked the obvious question: “How is anyone going to get that close?”

Trevor brushed aside the photos and unfurled a map of Wilkes-Barre.

“Jon, tell me about their checkpoints.”

Brewer pointed to the map. “They’ve got the major and secondary roads blocked. Here…here…and here.”

Honest regret sounded in Stonewall’s voice: “I hate to be the pessimist but I can not fathom an approach they have not covered.”

“That’s because you didn’t grow up in northeastern Pennsylvania. Did he, Jon?”

Brewer—the only other native of the area in the room—did not understand.

Trevor helped Jon’s mind develop a picture. “When you were sixteen and your cousin bought you beer, where did you and your friends go to drink it? When you were twelve and were heading to the park to play a game of pick up football did you know a short cut? What about dirt bike riding or walking with the pack after curfew on Friday night?”

Jon’s eyes widened and he grinned as understanding blossomed. He returned to the map and traced his finger over it.

Trevor said, “They spider web all over this area. Years ago, when they were still mining anthracite ‘round here, every neighborhood had them. That’s why they’re perfect, because those neighborhoods didn’t like them so they put them between tree lines or through areas of heavy brush or squeezed them between buildings and out of sight. They’re tough to spot from the air.”

Trevor spent several more minutes explaining the second phase of his plan.

Nina nodded in approval as she predicted, “They’ll never see you coming.”

“Hmmm,” Stonewall tipped his hat at Trevor then Jon. “I do concede, you gentlemen offer thinking that is—what would be the word?—ah yes, three-dimensional. As long as our Redcoat friends remain one-dimensional, the Lord may bless us with a prayer. But you will still have several hundred of their soldiers to contend with, even if they become leaderless.”

Trevor explained the last part of the plan and ended by telling Nina, “That leaves it to you and me to polish things off. We’ll only use one. I’d rather have one running fast and efficient with both gunner and pilot.”

“Um…Trev,” Jon tried to be subtle but failed.

“You don’t trust Nina, I know. Your rational mind tells you that it wasn’t her fault, but you can’t bring yourself to trust her despite that. I understand. It’s human.”

Stone faced her.

“But it’s also human to have faith in someone. I have faith in her. We—I—need her. Just as I need Stonewall to do his part and I need you, Jon, on the front line.”

“I hate to break up the mutual admiration society,” Stonewall broke in. “I’m still not exactly sure how I’m supposed to accomplish my rather lofty objective.”

Trevor placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Why General, you’re going to charm them right out of their fancy red coats.”

*

The night air felt cold and dry. A blanket of clouds obscured the moon and stars. The streetlights had stopped functioning months ago, leaving the Redcoat checkpoint at the lower end of Kidder Street across from a vacant Taco Bell to depend on a pair of glowing orbs for light.

Behind a hastily constructed barricade of abandoned human vehicles, a squad of ten soldiers manned that important checkpoint: important because it guarded the most direct route from the city to the army’s assembly area.

The aliens huddled together around the glowing orbs in search of warmth but remained vigilant with their helmets on and weapons at the ready.

A heavy, chopping noise cut through the air: thump-thump-thump.

The aliens heard that noise in previous battles. They knew the creature on the other end of that thump-thump could spit furious fire. They had lost more than a few comrades to its teeth.

That creature appeared above the rooftops of the neighborhood ahead of the checkpoint: An Apache attack helicopter.

The alien soldiers used box-like communicators to call for help. Their powerful anti-aircraft guns sat at the camp on top of the hill behind them. However, they knew those guns were useless in this case: the area around the checkpoint lay beneath the firing arc of the weapons.

To their surprise, the ship did not attack. It hovered a hundred feet away.

Below the chopper, moving up the street, came a strange-looking man. A human male with an odd uniform riding on an animal and approaching the checkpoint.

The squad leader at the alien post produced a paddle-shaped translating device from his accessories sack. When the strange human spoke, the aliens listened to the translation.

“Do not make any sudden moves or your position will be destroyed in its entirety. I bring you a warning: this city and all its populace belongs to me, General Stonewall Garrett McAllister. Leave this area and we will not destroy you. Approach this city and you will be crushed under the heel of our boots.”

The squad leader responded with a snort: his race’s version of a chuckle.

The human spoke again: “Move off and you and your army will be spared.”

The man on the four-legged animal galloped away. The helicopter provided cover for a moment, then it too turned and disappeared above the rooftops.

The squad leader barely contained his fury. How dare these barbarians speak to a superior race in such a manner!

When the army commander hears of this insult there can be no other course of action. We will take this human’s city and smash it to pieces!

The Battle of Wilkes-Barre

Moments before the first rays of light climbed the horizon, the aliens at the Kidder Street checkpoint dove for cover beneath their bulwark of dead cars as explosions erupted around them.

The mortar shells caused no damage but served as further insult to the proud army occupying the high ground above the city.

One of the alien shuttles lifted from the Redcoat camp and hovered above Kidder Street, no doubt tracing the source of incoming artillery.

From his perch atop the brick brewery building, Shep radioed, “Ross, you copy?”

“Yeah, Shep. Go ‘head.”

“One of their planes is airborne. I don’t see any missiles or armaments, but they got to be up to something. Wait a sec…”

A sharp buzz pulled his attention to the assembly area where two of the silver upside-down-bowl machines came to life: large barrels extended from their smooth surfaces.

“Ross, bug out! Move!”

First one gun, then the second, launched blue fireballs glowing like shooting stars in the morning twilight. The balls flew over the Kidder Street checkpoint in a beautiful arc and crashed into a house just as Woody “Bear” Ross and his two mortar teams left its backyard.

Instead of an explosion, the strike disintegrated the home as if it were a sandcastle caught in a gale: not board by board, but molecule by molecule leaving the foundation filled with dust.

With the mortars disrupted, the alien artillery fell silent. However, part one of the plan—the baiting part—worked: the Redcoats assembled two regiments and marched down hill.

“This is Shepherd to all units; we got that war we wanted. It’s going to be a long day.”

*

“Public Square” comprised the heart of Wilkes-Barre. A small park sat inside a traffic circle where four primary streets converged.

Buildings surrounded the square, a few reaching fourteen stories and standing since the 1930s. Others, such as the bus terminal and Ramada hotel, were built after the ‘72 flood, hence a more modern appearance.

A holler—a rebel yell—followed by a trumpet crooning something similar to “Dixieland,” disturbed the deceptively quiet scene downtown as dawn bloomed.

Stonewall, Dustin McBride, and bugle boy Benny Duda galloped on horseback from south to north along Main Street and across Public Square.

The commotion woke the city.

Things emerged from the shadows, the smashed display windows, and the battered store doors. Ghouls from Boscov’s, a tall troll from a garage…out came the hordes; hordes hungry because prey animals had become scarce to the point that predators now fed on other predators.

The groans…the growls…the moans…the unearthly whistling…a garbled cackle…they joined together in a nightmarish chorus.

*

One Redcoat regiment strutted down Kidder Street, marching side by side grouped in squads with one air ship overhead. They stayed to the east of downtown, making their way into the residential neighborhood that had sheltered the mortar teams an hour before.

A second regiment—also supported by one airship—split to the west then turned again to follow Wilkes-Barre Boulevard, a major north-south thoroughfare skirting center city. Both regiments aimed southward like parallel spears searching for a victim to skewer.

Shepherd radioed, ‘Trevor, you copy? Two formations headin’ south according to plan.”

Trevor’s reply over the radio: “I guess we should be careful what we wish for. Good luck to everyone. See you soon, I hope.”

*

Ross’ group chased away a furry crocodile creature and then hid in a dilapidated furniture warehouse just off Wilkes-Barre Boulevard to the northeast of center city. His mini-army consisted of himself, Kristy Kaufman and a pair of two-person mortar teams.

One of those teams was comprised of an elderly fellow everyone called “Pop” because he spoke often of his dead grandkids, as well as a young woman named Jennie.

Mortar team number two included a late 20’s man with a goatee nicknamed “Bird” because of the American eagle tattooed to his chest. Formerly a borderline white supremacist, Armageddon (and General Stonewall) changed his perspective.

Since Frank Dorrance’s death, Bird now paired with Cassy Simms when on mortar duty.

Ross peered from a front window while his teams exited the rear door, walked under a small iron train trestle straddling a side street, and set up their weapons behind the cover of a steep grassy bank that supported railroad tracks.

One of the alien regiments came marching along the boulevard in perfect formation, their red uniforms stood apart brilliantly from the grungy, litter-covered streets of the dead city. The ship providing air cover drifted off, perhaps investigating movement or a shadow.

Ross watched as the vanguard of the regiment neared a traffic sign that served as a range marker for his teams. As the first alien soldiers passed that small blue sign, he turned to Kristy Kaufman and shouted, “Now!”

Kristy stepped out the rear door and signaled Pop. A moment later, a thwoop-thwoop played in Ross’ ears like a sweet melody.

The first explosion turned a neat formation of Redcoats into a flying mass of splintered body parts. The next landed among the scattering aliens killing three and wounding several more.

Ross allowed another volley and then ordered retreat. Less than a minute after exiting the warehouse, sapphire balls of alien artillery disintegrated the building into sawdust, left smoldering holes in the grassy embankment, and twisted the iron trestle as if touched by the sun.

*

The second part—or hope—of the plan showed signs of success around noon. At that time, the 1st Regiment—the one conducting house-to-house searches through the dense residential neighborhood to the east—suffered an ambush of ghouls from alleys and backyards.

Those ghastly, mindless animals flooded the Redcoat marching lines and clawed or bit to death six soldiers before the Redcoats’ superior firepower eliminated the threat.

A while later that same regiment changed its heading and moved west toward downtown. As they passed a nightclub built from an old train station, something big charged the group.

It walked on massive, elephant-like legs that could crush a car and Bobby Weston. It had no head or eyes but it did have six long necks flailing like thick tentacles. Massive mouths opened and shut at the end of those flailing necks.

The Redcoat commander barked orders but his decrees went unheard as the monster stomped soldiers. Nearly two squads crunched underfoot with sickening snaps while the impact tremors knocked more off balance.

Hurried blasts from Redcoat rifles pinpricked the mammoth as it stomped again, crushing another half-dozen aliens while its mouths plucked even more from the street as if gorging at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Stonewall observed the carnage from a prone position beneath a smashed city bus two blocks away. He set aside his hat and pointed a sniper rifle in the direction of the battle. Dustin McBride shared the space beneath the bus using binoculars to spot targets while Benny Duda hid in a nearby alleyway with their horses.

“To the left,” McBride directed. “Looks like someone important; given orders ‘n shit.”

Through the scope, Stonewall spotted the brave Redcoat regiment commander valiantly rallying his troops despite the chaos.

“I salute you, Sir,” Stonewall said honestly, and fired.

The high-powered slug tore through the commander’s body armor and knocked him to the ground at the same moment another giant leg stepped on yet another bunch of Redcoats.

Amidst the confusion, none of the aliens noticed the sniping of their leader.

Another Redcoat officer fell, then another, adding to the chaos.

One alien squad managed to disengage from the creature, retreated twenty yards, and formed a firing line. They pointed their guns at the giant, pulled triggers, then waited, confirming the notion that these extraterrestrial rifles required charging time to build power.

Finally, they let loose a volley of energy exploding into the hide of the beast; its myriad of mouths howled in unison. The volley left a gory hole as if the creature had been hit with a bazooka. Apparently, the Redcoat rifles packed a significant punch if given time to power-up.

The hydra-thing toppled, crushing an ATM kiosk.

As the Redcoats counted their losses, Stonewall went to work again: a squad leader’s helmet blew to pieces; the chest of an alien soldier exploded. This time the aliens recognized the peril and sought cover behind overturned cars and the giant’s dead carcass.

Stonewall’s radio broadcast a warning from Shepherd: “Incoming artillery fire!”

McBride wiggled backwards saying, “Man, we had a good thing going.”

Stonewall answered, “All good things…”

The two men—now covered with grime and dust—rolled out from beneath the bus and ran toward the alley. Two burning blue balls fell from the sky and hit the bus which disintegrated into metal shavings until consuming the fume-filled gas tank. The tank exploded, turning those metal shavings into shrapnel.

They rounded the corner and came upon Benny Duda holding the reigns of three steeds.

“Saddle up, our work has just begun, gentlemen,” Stonewall ordered.

“What? Huh?” Dustin, following behind, asked.

Stonewall saw Dustin clutching the side of his head. “I say, are you injured?”

“What’s that, General?”

Dustin pulled his hand from his head. He lacked a right ear.

*

Ross admired the aliens’ tenacity as he watched their advance from a parking garage roof.

After shelling this group of Redcoats—identified as the 2nd Regiment—on Wilkes-Barre Boulevard, Ross had retreated to a small parking garage on the King’s College campus a few blocks north of Public Square. He expected the regiment to be in hot pursuit. Instead, it took them well into the afternoon to move a half-mile.

Apparently, the Redcoats intended to leave no stone unturned; no hiding spot uncovered. They broke into groups of three and searched every house along their path, much to Woody Ross’ amusement.

In most cases, they entered homes and buildings, searched, and exited empty handed. Other forays proved more entertaining.

In one instance, Ross saw flashes of alien gunfire and then soldiers emerged from a home with the “trophy” of an emaciated house cat.

Another trio kicked open a door and rushed in only to be chased to the sidewalk by a two-legged lizard using its dome-shaped head like a battering ram to strike dead a Redcoat before they could power-up their energy guns enough to cut through its armor-plated hide.

Ross thought about sending the Redcoats a note of appreciation. Their slow progress gave him a chance to prepare a few surprises, their house-to-house searching reduced the hostiles in the city, and their brightly-dressed attention-grabbing army drew creatures away from Ross’ (and Stonewall’s) smaller, more vulnerable bands of fighters.

Finally, the 2nd Regiment approached perpendicular to North Main Street. From his perch above that intersection, Ross saw another bad surprise looming for the Redcoats: acid-spitting dog-sized cockroaches swarming up Main Street. The Redcoats—their lead elements still around the corner—could not see the line of big bugs.

Ross, foreseeing chaos, decided to add to it.

“Smoke canisters! Hurry!”

Mortar rounds hit at the front of the Redcoat line. The soldiers held their ranks in a most admirable manner.

The regiment commander led his men into the billowing clouds of white fog, probably assuming the smoke hid a human retreat. At the same time, the horde of oversized bugs essentially t-boned the Redcoat column.

From behind the veil of smoke came screams, the zap of energy weapons, commands yelled in an alien tongue, and insect hisses. Yellow streams of burning acid sizzled like the sound of water on a hot frying pan. Above the mess floated the 2nd Regiment’s air ship that had failed to spot the danger.

A cold wind dissipated the smoke aiding the Redcoat officers in gaining control of their men—those not melted into piles—and utilizing their energy weapons to destroy the swarm.

As the last insects died…as the fray finally subsided…as the Redcoats formed marching lines once again, the mortars fired this time with explosive shells that—given the close range and tightly packed enemy formation—simply could not miss.

Two…four…six explosions raked the army. Body parts, helmets, and equipment tossed into the air while neatly lined rows of Redcoats toppled like dominoes.

With the aid of their air ship, the Redcoats spotted their attackers and fired energy bolts toward the roof of the parking garage.

Ross ordered the retreat and the mortar teams—lugging heavy backpacks as well as the mortar tubes—evacuated the roof.

As three enemy squads marched into the confines of the garage, Ross and his men slipped out the rear, hidden from the aircraft’s view by shabby and dead overgrown brush.

Inside, the Redcoats surrounded an odd-looking human vehicle; scrape marks from the low-hanging garage roof were visible on its cab as well as the white, tubular body. The aliens did not understand the symbols: AGWAY PROPANE.

The concrete ceiling and floor funneled the explosion laterally, engulfing the Redcoats in a firestorm of burning gas and exploding truck. Balls of black smoke rolled out from the garage and the blast echoed across the city, catching the attention of numerous hostile ears.

While two more squads went inside to extract survivors, a mob of ghouls plowed into the remaining regiment elements on the street.

This time panic struck the ranks. Individual soldiers fired wildly as the speed of the attack allowed no time for formal lines. The regiment commander personally killed two of the bony, ape-like fiends at close range.

Eventually, the Redcoats overcame the assault. Nonetheless, two more squads had been badly mauled, pushing the formation’s casualty count over sixty percent.

An alien shuttle landed on the parking garage roof and loaded wounded for evacuation.

Mortar rounds exploded on and around the ship, lobbed from the roof of a tall King’s College dormitory three hundred yards to the southwest.

Rifle charge packs stored onboard the ship created a secondary explosion resulting in an inferno. Fire jetted from the open sliding side doors and the cockpit window exploded out. The injured Redcoats onboard became dead Redcoats and nearby healthy Redcoats became dead or injured Redcoats.

The remaining members of the 2nd Regiment retreated into a small building catty-corner from the parking garage and established a hard point.

An hour later, a squad leader missing after the shuttle exploded crossed the street to join his comrades. He appeared dazed and disheveled and carried a message for the Redcoat General. When translated, it read: “General Stonewall McAllister will accept your surrender with the following terms: you will strip naked and crawl through the streets begging for mercy.”

*

Gray clouds swept in and turned the city dark earlier than usual. Shepherd—drinking his third cup of horrible instant coffee—contacted Trevor via radio.

“The 3rd Regiment bugged out before dark along with two flying ships. Garrett tracked them. Give em’ credit, they search just about every house, shop, and bowling alley they pass. But get this; they stopped when the sun went down. Looks like they don’t like fighting at night.”

Trevor said, “Everything they do is really formal. Maybe where they came from they fight wars like gentlemen in a dual. Or maybe their world has more sunlight or something.”

“Whatever the reason, it looks like they took over a bunch of houses off Wilkes-Barre Boulevard and have hunkered down for the night. That means the Reds have committed three of their four regiments to the fight.”

“As best as we could hope,” Trevor radioed through cracks of static.

Shep waved away a cloud of smoke from Omar’s cigarette; the scientist lay nearby studying the Redcoat artillery through binoculars.

“Anyways, Ross tore up their 2nd Regiment really good. ‘Course he had some help from our friends downtown. Point being, that bunch lost most of their men and are held up in a building on North Main Street. Tell you what, though, them boys can hold a hard point. Ross says there’s been waves of things bull-rushing them for hours and they mowed them all down.”

“They’re disciplined and their weapons pack a punch. What about the 1st Regiment?”

Shepherd snickered. “After they got stomped, they headed straight for the Square. Garrett says them fellas got hit with a whole shitload of baddies. He saw a blob chase them and one of them…whattayacallit…a ‘Stick Ogre’ brained a bunch of them before they blasted it. Now they’re held up in a big blue and white office building downtown.”

Trevor told Shep, “Us locals call that one the Bicentennial Building because it was built back in ‘76 for the—”

“Bicentennial. Okay, I get it, I’m not that slow.”

Shep heard a drop in Trevor’s enthusiasm as he asked, “How many we lose so far?”

“Not a one unless you count the monsters downtown. The Redcoats have killed off a heap of them.”

Trevor asked, “What about Dustin?”

Another cloud of smoke drifted near. Shep waved it away again.

“Garrett says they patched Dustin up just fine. Nothing we can do about his ear, ‘course, but he refused to go home. The three of them are held up in the hotel across from the ‘Bicentennial Building’, right under the Redcoats’ nose. That Stonewall sure is ballsy.”

“Is Ross’ group with him?”

“No. Bear is bunking in a college dorm. You know, those mortars are dry on ammo and those guys are worn out; they did the heavy lifting today. Honestly, I think they’re done for a while. Say, what’s Jon’s status?”

Trevor answered, “They’re hiding in a strip mall on the west side of the river waiting for you to give the word when that 4th Regiment moves. That’s when things will get interesting.”

“No doubt. And you two?”

Trevor’s tone changed from the strong commander to something akin to a teenage boy speaking with a girl’s father before a first date: “Um, me and Nina are held up here in a house on the north end. We’re going to sleep in, you know, separate rooms and all. We’ve got enough K9 noses here to let us know if anything gets close and our chopper is hidden good. Um, you?”

“Well, the temperature is starting to drop like a rock, so we got ourselves blankets and some God-awful coffee. Seems to me the Redcoats are shutting down for the night, so maybe we can get some shut eye.”

“Sounds like a plan, Shep. Keep me informed if anything happens, otherwise goodnight.”

Shep put down the radio and gazed out the window. Far across the way, he spied the lights of the Redcoat camp. Above, a blanket of thick clouds obscured the stars and a light snow drifted to Earth.

More smoke stung his eyes.

“Hey, I’m trying to breathe over here.”

*

Trevor examined the radio in his hand but—in actuality—he studied the situation.

Things went according to plan. The Redcoat regiments fought the monsters in the city with Ross and Stonewall aggravating the alien army from a safe distance. If tomorrow went as well as today, the Redcoats’ numbers would dwindle to a fraction of their initial strength and the monsters infesting the city would be similarly culled.

However, he knew the danger would increase exponentially tomorrow. Certainly the Redcoats would adjust their tactics or, worse, they would swallow their pride and withdraw to continue their march on Harveys Lake where they would find and destroy the estate, undoing months of progress.

Nina—in a flight suit similar to Trevor’s—walked into the kitchen where he stood.

“I checked on the chopper from the window,” she told him. “Nothing has messed with it.”

Trevor chose that particular house on the north end of Wilkes-Barre to use as their staging point because it sat next to a golf course nestled amidst a neighborhood, all just a few seconds flying time from the alien encampment.

Nina asked, “What’s Shep have to say?”

“Everything is going according to plan.”

“That’s great.”

“Yea, but it’s kind of scary,” he said and drifted to the kitchen table where a kerosene lamp lit the room in a soft glow. “We’ve brow-beaten an alien army and the worse we’ve taken is Dustin McBride losing an ear.”

“Good planning,” she said. “And a little luck.”

“Maybe. Or…” he gazed at her as his thoughts drifted off. “Or maybe we’re too good at this; at this whole fighting thing. Ever since man made fire we’ve done nothing but divide into tribes and countries and fight each other. Maybe a dress rehearsal for all this?”

Nina, returning his stare, whispered, “Maybe we’re a race of killers. Maybe that’s why they’re here; to snuff us out because we’re so damned dangerous.”

The two realized they stared at one another and quickly averted their eyes.

*

The combatants in the Battle for Wilkes-Barre awoke on the second day to a ground covered with the remains of a snow squall. The early sun managed to burn away low-hanging cloud cover but it could not chase away the cold. Soldiers on both sides spoke through puffs of chilled air and wet, icy snowflakes fluttered on the wind.

Stonewall and his companions gathered in the bridal suite on the top floor of the Ramada on Public Square. Dustin cleaned the bandage on his ear and Benny ate a stale candy bar.

The General gazed out the window toward the blue and white building across the street where the enemy camped. Strategies and goals rolled over in his mind.

Eventually he boiled it down to one order: “Gentlemen, let’s go for a ride.”

The unit descended the hotel via a stairwell, released their horses from the banquet room, and rode into the early morning light whooping and hollering and firing into the air.

The horse hooves clunked and clapped on the pavement as Stonewall led the three around Public Square, brazenly passing in front of the 1st Regiment of alien soldiers in the Bicentennial Building. The sentries fired hastily aimed potshots but scored no hits.

Stonewall waved his hat at the Redcoats and veered north on Main Street, galloping between burned out abandoned vehicles.

A half-mile north they happened upon yesterday’s battleground—dead alien bodies, ghouls, and a multitude of big-but-squashed insects—as well as the remaining members of the 2nd Redcoat Regiment hunkered inside a small wooden building that had been a print shop (“Quick Print Your Summer Bazaar Flyers Here!”).

Stonewall lit and threw a Molotov cocktail. It splashed and spread flames fast along the front wall, forcing the Redcoats to evacuate.

Satisfied, McAllister turned his cavalry south again. A Redcoat aircraft followed their progress as the three horse soldiers slipped inside the large King’s College gymnasium (“Home of the Monarchs!”).

The burning wood of the print shop attracted more unwanted attention to the besieged 2nd Regiment. As thirty-five battered and weary soldiers evacuated the burning print shop, they confronted another mass of acid-spitting roaches slithering forth from the burned-out bottom level of the parking garage where—no doubt—the creatures had spent the night gorging on barbecued Redcoat carrion

Much to the surprise of the 2nd Regiment, a furious volley of massed energy balls shredded the insects. That volley came from the 3rd Regiment as it marched up a side street to join the action. The equation shifted in the aliens’ favor.

A devilbat swooped low. Well-aimed, coordinated fire knocked it spinning from the sky.

A seven-foot-tall troll lumbered toward the group and was blasted to pieces.

Enthusiasm swept the aliens, despite the cold air, the blustery snow flurries, and the losses they had endured. A new day meant a new opportunity to finish the battle.

Plans went into motion.

The remnants of the 2nd Regiment merged with the 3rd and spread along Main Street.

The 1st Regiment further entrenched on Public Square, occupying positions on the top of the tallest buildings. Boxy alien flyers circled the sky.

The Redcoat General dispatched his 4th Regiment from the assembly area in the shopping district, which resulted in several enthusiastic radio communications from Shep to Trevor and Jon. Regardless, it took most of the morning for the 4th formation to march downtown and align itself perpendicular to the Redcoat forces on Main Street.

When combined with the Susquehanna River bank to the west, the Redcoat army effectively sealed off several square blocks of city, including the heart of the college campus.

Back at the assembly area, all four of the big guns hovered into firing position.

The first blast arced away from the Redcoat base in a big blue ball with a trailing, comet-like aura. That comet smashed into the small parking garage Ross’ mortar teams had fired from the day before.

More volleys blasted the structure. Big bugs and green alien eels slithered from the doomed garage. The levels buckled and collapsed into a stack of cement flapjacks. A cloud of dust blew away in all directions, blanketing the area.

The artillery pieces adjusted and fired again.

Bolts of plasma fell into the King’s College gymnasium, punching through the roof and vaporizing the interior. The entire building imploded, letting loose another cloud.

The artillery continued. The bolts fell one after another after another.

Having already demonstrated their skill in precision targeting, the Redcoats displayed their skill at mass destruction. The crackling sound of exploding alien ordnance sizzled as if a city block sat atop a hot skillet. An acrid electric smell rode the black and brown fog of destruction rising as the carnage spread.

A series of the glowing balls fell into a large Victorian-ere home long ago remodeled into professional offices. Glowing rings of blue shockwaves radiated outward, smashing tall, majestic windows and knocking porch pillars from perches. The gutted interior could not support the frame so the roof dropped and the sidewalls splintered, leaving only the ruins of the front fascia standing hollow like a depthless prop on a theater stage.

The bombardment pounded on.

The King’s College School of Business suffered a torrent of raining shells. Glass shattered and melted into crystal teardrops. The Redcoat artillery erased in seconds what had taken months to build.

The fiery shots broke the golden dome of a grand synagogue. The stone walls beneath warped and chipped while the innards of the temple disassembled into ashes.

Everything inside the area cordoned by the soldiers felt the downpour. The bombs sent shockwaves but started no fires: the nature of the weaponry did not lend itself to ignition but, rather, evaporated or hammered everything it touched.

The shells came…and came…and came.

Stonewall’s trio of raiders led their horses to the basement fallout shelter of the Kirby Health center, a stately old mansion turned office building.

Garrett intended to stay in the shelter but a blast knocked over a wall and released a horde of those acid-spitting insects into the basement. The men pushed through the thick haze of dust to the outside, barely escaping but losing their horses to the bugs. They faced, however, an even more dangerous environment: a city street covered in a storm of swirling debris, noxious vapors, and collapsing buildings. Visibility shrunk to a few yards.

The ground shook. Flashes of blue flickered like lightning behind the clouds of dust. The smell—similar to electrical wires overheating—grew thick and heavy.

Stonewall led his men even as the chaos rang so loud he could not hear his own shouts. His group met Woody Ross’ unit in the remains of a blasted-open foundation.

They stayed there until a towering college dormitory fell. Car-sized chunks of concrete and steel dropped on their position; one fell on Jennie, killing her instantly.

Stonewall directed the rest to a manhole cover in the center of River Street. They descended like escaping rats into the dark sewer. The cramped tunnel did not allow for standing room, so they sat together in the sludge. The piping was not large enough to allow passage, trapping them in that one smelly spot for hours, feeling the ground shake around them, and fearing entombment should a shot hit directly above.

While they hunkered in a makeshift bunker to wait out the storm, the trembling ground and the constant noise forced, pulled, and otherwise attracted a host of predators from their nests, dens, and lairs.

A cloud of jellyfish things—capable of floating in the air for short periods—charged from their hive inside a deli at the Redcoat perimeter like angry bees swarming. Dozens besieged the Bicentennial Building, engaging sentries on the ground level and floating up and around in a furious frenzy. The Redcoats knocked most from the air quickly, but several broke through to the forward headquarters on a nearby roof.

The newly promoted commander of the 1st Regiment ended up on the inside of one of the jellyfish-things gaping at his comrades while his battle armor and skin dissolved.

Ghouls, rat-things, another stick ogre, and a tangled ball of eels threatened the Redcoat lines. They all died from the aliens’ energy weapons but drained precious ammunition, inflicted casualties, and distracted from the main objective.

Around noon, an army of carnivorous spider-ants—each rivaling a city bus in size—marched from the south side toward downtown.

Hovering shuttles spotted the approaching threat and the Redcoats formed to face the menace. One wave of insects approached on Main Street, a second came parallel along Franklin. When they moved to within a block of Public Square, the Redcoats opened fire.

The first wave of the spider-ants fell to the concentrated, highly charged rifles.

They kept coming.

The second wave did not stay at street level. The things crawled sideways on walls and over buildings, circumventing and breaching the Redcoat lines.

Their huge pinchers sliced several aliens in two and carried others south as dinner for larva. The new-new 1st Regiment Commander, who held the post for two hours, died in the mandibles of a spider-ant when it surprised his HQ atop a bank building.

Artillery fire from the alien base camp halted while the foot soldiers dealt with the giant insects. Stonewall took advantage of the pause and vacated their hiding spot for the massive Luzerne County Courthouse along the riverbank.

By late afternoon, the 1st Regiment stemmed the spider-ant attack, killing most while the balance retreated to their nest in South Wilkes-Barre. The Redcoats lost nearly thirty killed, worse-than-killed, and injured during the engagement.

Nevertheless, the artillery bombardment began anew.

Stonewall’s group made it to the courthouse before that firing restarted. Inside, high in the mammoth rotunda waited a huge spider overlooking all entrances. It managed to sting Pop before they chased it off with small arms fire. Pop shivered violently and died.

Bird and Simms took aim at the evil-looking shadow.

Stonewall shouted, “No!” They gawked at him. He explained, “Allow the beast to lurk about. No need to dispatch it quite yet.”

Stonewall smiled despite the presence of dozens of webbed carcasses scattered throughout the silk-ish fibers of the spider’s haunt.

“When our friends finish destroying the city, they will search for our bodies, enter this hall, find our eight-legged friend, and conclude we could not be hiding here.”

Stonewall did not allow for debate. He led his group into the Sheriff’s office where several skeletons—still handcuffed to desks—sat with bony grins.

Early that evening, the Redcoat artillery barrage halted, leaving several square blocks in ruin. A cloud of smoke hovered above the bombed-out scene creating a literal fog of war floating over piles of dust, rock, melted glass, and a handful of standing pillars and porches.

Redcoat patrols swept the entire dead zone. At the courthouse, they found the massive arachnid and killed it, but did not bother searching the rest of the building, as Garrett foresaw.

As the patrol left Stonewall said, “Not quite their usual thoroughness, thankfully.”

Cassy Simms replied, “Maybe they’re tired. And frustrated. You have that effect on people, General.”

Stonewall smiled. “Indeed.”

Night fell. The Redcoats remained entrenched in their positions downtown, but prying human eyes saw gear being packed, equipment stowed, and lazy perimeter patrols.

Stonewall radioed Shepherd to share his guess that the Redcoats had swallowed their pride and would pull out come morning.

Too late.

Counter Attack

The stars and a not-quite-full moon shined down upon a badly mauled Redcoat army entrenched downtown and constantly harassed by predators.

Perhaps the aliens felt they had accomplished something: several square blocks of city had been leveled and no human mortars, cavalry, or snipers threatened since the bombardment.

Victory or not, the Redcoats stowed gear, secured checkpoints, and shortened patrols in preparation for withdrawing at first light.

Jon Brewer’s voice transmitted to Shepherd who somehow managed to stay awake and alert at his post in the brewery building: “Okay Shep, Omar made it to us. We’re ready to go.”

Trevor’s voice joined the radio traffic: “Good. Shep, run it down one last time before we dive in. Every one has got to know where the pieces are.”

Shep eyed the brightly-lit parking lot between two big-box stores where the Redcoats camped. A dark void filled the gap between his position and the alien HQ.

“Okay, listen up. All four of their regiments are downtown; you know that or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Forgetin’ their checkpoints for now, that leaves their General and his staff with security and a lot of wounded.”

Brewer radioed, “How many do you think are up there?”

“Combat effective? About twenty between officers, security, and the gun crews but not including the checkpoints or their air ships.”

After a burst of static Trevor said, “If the checkpoints get in on this then things won’t go well. As for the air ships, I don’t think they’re armed. Can their wounded fight? How many?”

Shep clicked on a pen light and checked a pad where he kept notes.

“Between yesterday and today I saw about fifty carried into the stores. I don’t know how many of them are still breathing but I haven’t seen them come out. Most of their walking wounded are still with their regiments and weren’t evacuated up this way.”

Jon said, “This is it, then.”

Trevor radioed, “Jon, are you good to go? Are you sure?”

His reply: “Are you two? Once we get ahold of the AA guns it’s all on you.”

“Yeah,” Trevor answered, “But if you don’t get them we won’t last ten seconds.”

Shep suffered a long yawn, a symptom of sitting for two days in a cold, dusty old building. He felt the tickle of a sore throat and a touch of stuffiness in his nose. He only hoped it would be a common cold and not some strange alien flu.

He said, “Seems to me things have broke our way better than we could have hoped, so we either ride our hot streak and finish the job, or turn tail and call ourselves lucky.”

Jon Brewer transmitted, “Guess I’ll get started. Hope to see you again soon. If I don’t, well, it’s been a pleasure.”

The radio went silent; nothing remained to say.

Shepherd settled against the window and enjoyed his front row seat for the show.

*

Proven fighters comprised most of Jon Brewer’s strike team.

Danny Washburn could handle a gun thanks to government training. Whiskey—despite his age—proved himself during the assault on The Order’s base. Ames—the fiery brunette—not only fought bravely during the Allentown expedition but did so wearing a splint on her broken arm (which she still wore). Tolbert was not only physically impressive but had performed well as a rear guard during the extraction from The Order’s base.

Two members of his team did not have combat experience: Omar, who would hang back to avoid the fighting anyway, and Lori Brewer, Jon’s wife.

She insisted she would not allow her husband to commit suicide alone and claimed her shooting skills—thanks to Nina’s tutelage—had improved.

Jon, reluctantly, included her. However, the mission began a half-hour late because Lori succumbed to a bout of nausea.

Ten Grenadiers—a mix of Rottweilers and Dobermans—rounded out the group.

At 2:30 a.m., they emerged from hiding and followed the plan of movement first conceived by Trevor: the hidden paths cut through Northeastern Pennsylvania by railroad companies. Decades ago, those tracks hauled coal out of the valley and supplies in to the anthracite mines. They crisscrossed through the area like a network of above-ground tunnels.

Jon led them through the pitch-black night surrounded by strange noises and watching eyes. They crossed the Susquehanna on a thin train trestle then through patches of woodland, alongside a stream, and across the boulevard fifty yards from Jerry Shepherd’s observation post.

Their stealthy approach benefited from the Redcoats’ decision to park four of their five flying ships for the night. Jon guessed they lacked fuel or perhaps this was another symptom of the aliens’ lack of night fighting experience.

After crossing the boulevard, the railroad tracks disappeared into a thick patch of dying brush and trees. The cover allowed them to slip directly beneath the Redcoats’ collective noses; so close, they could hear the undecipherable conversations of sentries.

Nerves and the need for stealth stretched the relatively short trip—a little over a mile— to a ninety-minute creep through a dark nightmare. Nonetheless, they avoided detection.

Jon balanced his M4 rifle against a tree stump, wiped cold sweat off his forehead, and surveyed his unit. For a moment, he worried their frosted exhales might give away their position.

Washburn gripped his own M4 tight and flashed a nervous grin.

Reverend Johnny—who kept watch on things at the estate—had loaned his flamethrower to Tolbert. The sturdy man labored to catch his breath after having hauled the bulky contraption for an hour and a half of walking, jogging, running, and hiding.

Ames, who carried one of the platypus plasma rifles, fell on her rump and held a free hand to her chest as if feeling for a heart beat. Whiskey fiddled with the canvass bag full of ping-pong ball grenades slung over his shoulder. He also carried a nine-millimeter handgun.

Jon’s wife tried hard to appear at ease but the .44 Desert Eagle pistol she carried trembled in her grasp.

As for Omar, his handgun remained holstered and an unlit cigarette hung from his mouth.

Meanwhile, the stoic and dependable K9s waited on their haunches as if wondering why the group paused.

Jon breathed deep and pointed a small flashlight to the west: toward the brewery. He flashed twice and knew the signal would activate the last piece of the puzzle. In a few seconds, Trevor and Nina would pull the camouflage netting off the Apache hidden on the 16th hole of the municipal golf course.

Jon, despite the fluttering tickle of fright swirling in his belly, gave his people a thumb up. He locked eyes on Lori and mouthed the words I love you.

She kissed him quick then drove a fist of encouragement into his arm, as if to say ‘let’s go get them’ but her wide eyes and quivering lips could not hide her fear.

The group, except for Omar, exited the brush and quietly climbed the grassy slope toward the parking lot. To Jon’s ears, every brushed blade of dead grass, every pebble knocked loose, every breath sounded as loud as gunshots.

He remained focused on the guardrail at the top of the slope that marked the rim of the lot, fearing the appearance of a curious sentry.

Jon reached the guardrail first, crouched, and peered over. Twenty yards away hovered the first of the four artillery pieces. Further along—another fifteen yards or so—sat one of the all-important anti-aircraft guns.

The crews were not with their weapons; the alien gunners huddled along the sides of the old stores. They appeared cold, bored, and tired.

Perfect.

Jon and Danny led the silent charge while Lori—as per agreement with her husband—stayed at the guardrail. They moved to the first artillery piece undetected, but the time had come to wake the enemy.

Whiskey, stumbling along, threw a glowing grenade into a mass of half-sleeping Redcoats near the wall of the electronics store to the right. Jon and Danny fired on alien soldiers loitering to the left near the old home merchandise outlet.

The exploding ping-pong balls blew apart several tired aliens; more died from gunshots. The ruckus woke the encampment and sent the sounds of battle over the dark valley.

Tolbert, still struggling with the weight of the flamethrower, unleashed a terrifying wall of flames sending alien soldiers running and generating confusion in the ranks.

The dogs swept in snarling and snapping. Redcoat armor provided some protection, but K9s managed to drag many to the ground, digging and ripping until finding tender alien flesh.

They reached and gained control over the two anti-aircraft guns. Tolbert and Ames broke off toward the command post as the half-dressed Redcoat General emerged from his quarters. Ames hit the extraterrestrial square in the chest with a plasma blast.

One of Whiskey’s ping-pong grenades tore apart the aliens’ temporary headquarters and Tolbert sprayed fire from his flamethrower, setting alight several soldiers.

Energy bolts whizzed near Jon’s head from the surrounding shadows, cutting short any thoughts of a victory dance.

Whiskey pulled a ping-pong grenade and cocked his arm. A blast smacked him and he fell to the pavement.

Danny Washburn grabbed the grenade from the corpse’s hand and lobbed it into the shadows where it exploded far away from anything.

Jon spotted a Redcoat firing line forming at the edge of the camp just beyond one of the four, parked flying machines. The enemy had regrouped quicker than expected and prepared to fire a volley.

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.

The air shook. A wind gusted across the parking lot. A portable light pole tumbled and smashed. Something big hovered above.

A hailstorm of bullets ripped in to the forming line of Redcoats, obliterating their armored bodies.

“You guys need a little help down there?”

Nina’s voice crackled from the rear seat of the Apache to Jon’s radio.

“Damn straight, Ghost Rider. Tear em’ up!”

Trevor sat in the forward seat controlling the gunship’s armaments. Gunner and pilot both wore night vision goggles.

Nina swerved the ship around searching for targets.

“Hold.”

She responded to Trevor’s order and held the craft steady.

The rapid-fire cannon whirled and bullets flew. Two enemy soldiers and the parked car they hid behind shredded to pieces.

“Starboard! Starboard!”

Trevor turned the gun sights to his right at Nina’s warning. A trio of Redcoats stood inside the windows of the electronics outlet, apparently thinking the darkness provided cover.

The ‘copter’s gun fired again. Glass smashed, parts of the store’s ceiling fell, and the aliens broke apart. Trevor kept firing, strafing the prone Redcoats in the makeshift hospital ward: no prisoners would be taken today.

Brewer radioed, “There’s a bunch of them in the other building!”

Nina pulled the helicopter about. The tail rotor knocked over another portable light but she handled the beast with skill, hovering near ground level. Trevor swept the interior until nothing moved.

“Boss! Check it out!” Tolbert yelled and pointed to the sky over the valley.

Jon saw what Tolbert saw: a speck of light flying toward the overrun camp: the only one of the Redcoats’ planes off the ground that night.

He frantically waved toward the guardrail. Lori, seeing the signal, escorted Omar to the heart of the camp. The professor had spent a full day smoking cigarettes and observing the big guns from Shepherd’s watch point. While the machines themselves were based on complicated technology, Omar quickly demonstrated that operating the guns posed no challenge.

With an unlit smoke in his mouth, Omar climbed into the gunner’s position on one of the mobile anti-air weapons. He scanned the strange symbols above buttons of various geometric shapes for three seconds, and then went to work.

The barrel elevated, swerved side to side, then down, then up again. The control panel on the anti-aircraft weapon beeped and bleeped.

“Omar…” Jon lead.

The professor muttered, “What are they going to be doing, Mr. Brewer? No weapons are onboard those ships of their’s. Nonetheless, I need one…moment…too…”

With an electronic buzz, a thin line of energy flew from the big gun like an arrow made of light. It hit the flying ship, neatly cutting away its mid section as if magically turning the metal there to dust. The remaining pieces of the craft fell to Earth and exploded.

After sweeping the camp one more time, Trevor and Nina tackled the Redcoat checkpoints one after another where they found alert but confused soldiers. It seemed their discipline worked against them. Had they abandoned their posts and rushed to the camp, the aliens would have thwarted Jon’s small strike team and retained control of their artillery.

Instead, the Apache preyed on small, clustered groups of sentries at scattered guard posts and dispatched them at the cost of fifty percent of the helicopter’s thirty-millimeter cannon ammunition and two Hellfire missiles.

While the Apache sought out checkpoints, Omar taught a crash course in alien artillery. Forty-five minutes later the big guns fired again.

Trevor and Nina took position near downtown and served as spotters.

The first shots fell randomly around the city; the aim so poor that the Redcoats—huddled in their defensive positions—did not realize the artillery aimed for them.

Until Omar and his gunners found their mark.

The 1st Regiment, tightly packed inside the big “Bicentennial Building,” suffered the worst. Artillery blasts shook the foundation and vaporized support pillars. The inexperienced Commander ordered the evacuation too late. The entire complex crumbled to pieces, killing nearly all the troops housed inside. Those not killed by the demolition, faced a horde of opportunistic ghouls.

Shortly thereafter, Omar aimed for the 3rd and 4th Regiments along North Main Street.

The human gunners did not handle the artillery pieces as expertly as the Redcoats. The difference in their success lay in the targets. The Redcoats had tried to stamp out a handful of guerrilla fighters by destroying entire blocks. Their chance of hitting those individuals had been relatively small compared to the size of the area targeted.

In contrast, the Redcoats packed themselves tightly into their points. Every blue bolt that hit one those buildings caught at least some of the enemy soldiers in its blast radius.

Discipline and doctrine were not the only Redcoat traits turned against them that night. The Redcoat artillery had been so intuitively designed that the humans not only learned fast how to fire effectively, but also had no trouble maintaining the barrage: the big energy guns ran on H2o and a special powdery compound added to the artillery much like mixing Kool-Aid into a pitcher of water.

*

Dawn brought a dramatically changed battlefield.

Trevor—in the Apache’s gunner’s seat—watched the landscape scroll below as they flew toward downtown after having refueled at the lake.

Nina—steering the chopper on a steep bank over center city—craned her neck to look down at the broken Bicentennial Building. Omar’s artillery barrage had scooped out the center and the outer walls collapsed in. Red-clothed cadavers lay throughout the wreckage.

She said, “Looks even worse now that the sun’s up. Most of them died at their posts.”

“Not all of them; look south.”

Nina did and saw two alien soldiers running from a dozen floating jellyfish creatures.

“Poor bastards,” she joked.

“Hey, no, really, we should thank them. You know how many hostiles they took out in town? Hundreds; maybe thousands, I’ll bet.”

They circled for another pass and then flew northeast toward the captured base camp.

Nina said, “I think I saw something moving over by the boulevard. I want to—oh shit!”

Trevor saw them, too: eight Redcoat soldiers standing in the parking lot of a Bowling Alley. They clearly held the helicopter in their sights.

Nina turned hard and accelerated. Trevor tried to lock-on with the cannon but fired wildly as the chopper bucked.

A volley fired toward the helicopter, but Nina’s evasive flying avoided the meat of the shot. A glancing blow hit near the rear-rotor. Alarm bells and warning lights blared in the cockpit; Nina’s feet furiously worked the suddenly limp pedals.

“I got it, I got it,” Nina’s assurance sounded hollow.

The chopper spun left, then right, all while descending dangerously fast first over residential roofs, then nearly into the side of a Wendy’s restaurant.

“We’re going down! Hold on!”

With a last second jerk on the stick, Nina turned a crash into a hard landing. They settled to a stop a few yards from the remains of the Redcoats’ Kidder Street checkpoint.

The two exited the cockpit, drew side arms, and inspected the damage.

“She’ll fly again,” Nina predicted as she ran her hand over the skin of the craft. “We just need to find some spare parts.”

Trevor changed the subject: “Good job up there.”

Nina smiled. “Yeah. You, too.”

They stared at one another for three long seconds, then nervously looked away.

Trevor and Nina walked Kidder Street to the parking lot that had once been the Redcoats’ camp. Four of the alien airships, four big pieces of artillery, two tanker vehicles of a kind, and two mobile anti-aircraft guns sat in that parking lot.

Omar shuffled between the guns and planes like an excited child on Christmas morning.

Trevor and Nina approached Jon and Lori.

Nina spoke first: “We kinda trashed the Apache and there’s a squad of Redcoats still roaming the boulevard.”

Jon Brewer said, “Don’t worry about them. If something doesn’t eat them by this afternoon, they’ll be on the run out of the valley.”

Trevor gave Jon a solid handshake.

“Well done…General. What’s our status?”

“Stonewall and Bear have headed for the estate; they need to rest and refit before they can do anything more. Some other volunteers drove in a while ago and are helping search for enemy stragglers. Personally, I’m exhausted and it’s damned cold out here. But you want to know something? I feel like I could do this all day.”

“Adrenaline,” Lori said. “Winning something like this, the way the odds were stacked against us, it’s like a drug, I suppose.”

A message came over the radio from Tolbert.

“Yo, boss,” he meant Brewer. “We found a couple of them holdin’ up in a corner bar. Could use some extra guns.”

Jon told Trevor: “Tolbert’s got a team searching over there,” and he pointed to a residential neighborhood below the ridge and to the north before transmitting to Tolbert: “We can’t have them drinking our booze, now can we?”

Jon slung his rifle, took a step in that direction, then turned to Nina. “Hey, you wanna help me out on this or is infantry work too good for the fly girl?”

She shrugged and followed him, rifle in hand.

Trevor stood with Lori Brewer and watched Nina and Jon walk across the parking lot, climb over the guardrail, and disappear down the grassy slope.

“Hey,” Lori put an arm on his shoulder. “How is it you knew this would work? How is it that we’re alive when we were outnumbered and outgunned?”

“How did you know when you came up that ridge that you would wipe out this base and survive to tell the tale?”

Lori answered, “I didn’t know. Honestly, I was sure we were going to die.”

“Yet you did it anyway?”

“Sure,” she said and tried to smile. “It didn’t seem like I had any other choice other than letting my husband get killed by himself.”

“Well there you go. It isn’t that I knew it would work, it’s that we didn’t have any other choice.”

Tolbert’s voice—from the radio—interrupted their conversation: “They’re taking pot shots at us. Where’s our support?”

Jon’s voice: “We’re coming. Over your right shoulder, cutting through the yard.”

Tolbert: “’Bout time.”

Trevor told Lori, “Your husband…he did a hell of a job.”

“Don’t tell him that; he’ll be impossible to live with.”

BANG.

An explosion blasted from the neighborhood to the north. Trevor flinched, then saw a puff of smoke drifting from the far side of a house.

His heart stopped as a message broadcast over the radio: “Nina is down! Nina is down!”

Trevor instantly stepped toward the slope but caught himself. In the distance, the smoke rose and dissipated.

Lori growled, “What are you waiting for? Get your ass down there, Trevor. Run…”

Trevor, confusion and fear all over his face, glanced at Lori then moved toward the grassy slope. His walk grew into a jog.

“Run! Go! Now!”

His jog became a trot became a sprint. Trevor bound down the hill nearly falling as he pushed through dead stalks of grass. He stumbled over the railroad tracks and raced across a small street then hopped a decaying old metal fence into a backyard where he stopped at the base of a rear porch.

In front of him, a block away, he saw the bar full of barricaded Redcoats. Jon, Tolbert and others fired into that bar neutralizing the threat. He did not see Nina.

Where is she?

His eyes searched desperately; his mouth gaped…

…Nina stood in the shadows of the porch holding an ice pack on a minor bump to her head. A stray Redcoat burst had hit a propane tank on a gas grille. The explosion merely knocked her to the ground. Jon left her behind with an instant-cold pack from his first aid kit.

Trevor did not see her, but she saw him; she saw him come running around the house searching for her. She saw the look of desperation in his eyes. Nina saw his feelings, forced to the surface by fear. She took a step forward. The boards creaked and grabbed his attention.

He saw her standing with the pack to her head. She did not need it, though. She tossed it aside at the same time that his look of desperation turned into a massive smile of relief.

Then he caught himself. The smile vanished. For a moment, it appeared he would walk away; retreat.

No. No more retreating.

Instead, he walked in big, deliberate—almost angry—strides to the porch. He climbed the stairs. Nina backed into the corner. Her heart raced; she trembled.

Trevor grabbed her shoulders and locked onto her eyes.

“Now you listen to me!” He shouted. “I don’t want to be alone anymore! I don’t want to be afraid anymore!”

She breathed a sigh and a sob all in one exhale as he continued, “I can’t spend every night thinking about you then every day running away from you!”

She shook; her eyes watered.

“Tell me to go away and I’ll go. But you have to tell me that because I’m done hiding from you!” He paused for only a split second then implored, “Say something! Say anything!”

The words flooded out: “What do you want me to say? I’m afraid, damn it, I’m scared!”

“We’re all scared!”

Their words mixed.

“I’ve never been like this before…I’m confused…and I keep wondering…I don’t want to be just a killer…”

He pushed, “Tell me something Nina! Tell me to leave but tell me something!”

“…and I betrayed you…and they made me hate you…but I think I love you!”

The words slipped out; no conscious thought directed them.

Everything stopped. All the mixed words. All the confusing emotions. Time halted.

Nina Forest filled with fear. She had never felt vulnerable before and now she stood there with her heart wide open. He could have shattered her with a word. He could have killed her if he walked away.

Trevor moved his arms from her shoulders to her back and gently pulled her in close; her face buried in his chest and the warmth of their hug chased away the cold of the day.

She whispered softly, “I don’t know…I don’t even know what that means.”

“We’re going to find out,” he stroked her hair. “We’re going to find out, together.”

Farewell

The Apache buzzed over barren treetops with Nina at the helm. She scanned the horizon seeing the late morning sun, brown grass fields with isolated patches of ice and snow, and thin forests laid overtop a series of rolling hills. She did not see what they searched for.

Three vehicles following an old dirt road emerged from a cluster of light woods and stopped at the edge of a clearing.

The sound of the Apache somewhere in the sky filtered into the cabin of the lead Humvee. Trevor, riding in the passenger’s seat, worked the ‘send’ button on his radio.

“Hey, hawk eye, see anything?”

Nina’s bird banked and gained altitude.

She answered, “Look, for the third time, I’ve got nothing up here.”

Trevor worked the radio again. “Well what am I paying you for?”

Her static-laced reply: “You haven’t paid me a nickel.”

“Well, you haven’t earned it yet. Get on the stick and stop fooling’ around up there.”

A series of colorful descriptive phrases—proposals as to how Trevor could best carry his radio—scorched the airwaves.

Trevor called to a different listener: “Jon, you doing’ better?”

Brewer stood on the open face of a hill flanked by Tolbert and Cassy Simms. Specks of white snow lay on the ground around them. All three wore camouflage and carried motorcycle helmets. Three hovercraft bikes sat parked behind them.

The elevated position afforded Jon a fantastic view of the countryside.

Jon answered over the shared radio frequency, “Ah, that’s a negative, Trev. All I can see is a helicopter flying around sort of aimlessly out there, like it’s lost or something.”

More obscenities came from that pilot. Trevor, meanwhile, sat in the Humvee and let loose a series of frustrated mumbles. He warned the driver, Reverend Johnny, “If that lizard fed us a line I’ll rip its neck out.”

“That may be difficult, my friend. I believe our informer has long since departed this area as per your instructions. I must confess my surprise at your decision to let it live.”

“I was in a particularly good mood,” Stone said in regards to the intelligent, bipedal lizard they had found on the outskirts of Shavertown and interrogated with the help of a Redcoat translation device. “Besides, if it’s right, there’s something pretty cool out here.”

Overhead, Nina stopped in the midst of mumbling and radioed, “I think I see something. Look, about a half-mile northwest of your position.”

Following her directions, the vehicles came upon a long, wide trench cutting across a meadow and ending at a bluff of red rock. A mound the size of a yacht rested there covered in upended soil and frosty snow. Nina’s chopper hovered above.

Trevor radioed Nina: “Um, howabout doin’ a sweep around here. I know how much you’d hate it if we got ambushed by a couple of Deadheads or something.”

Nina’s rebuttal crackled over the radio: “Gee whiz, that’d just ruin my day.”

The Apache dutifully circled the area.

The ground team disembarked. Omar (a smoldering smoke jabbed in his mouth), Jerry Shepherd, and a mass of K9s exited the convoy of SUVs.

“Here we go,” Trevor said as they walked alongside the trench. “According to that lizard-thing, this ship crashed last summer, thanks to an F-16.”

Omar said nothing; he couldn’t—not with such a huge grin on his face.

Shepherd grabbed Reverend Johnny’s shoulder.

“Hey, what exactly is it that critter said we’d find here?”

“Some sort of industrial equipment built, no doubt, for the vilest of purposes.”

“Not exactly,” Trevor cut in. “The lizards who owned this ship were transporting an industrial-strength matter transfiguration device.”

“A what?”

Omar explained, “A machine that manipulates matter on the molecular level.”

“One more time?”

Trevor tried: “A big piece of equipment that some aliens were using to build things they needed by changing other things. Like, oh, taking wood and changing it into metal. For example, um, you ever watch Star Trek?”

“No.”

“Really? You never watched Star Trek?”

“Seemed a right bit too far fetched for me,” Shepherd considered the new world, scratched his head, and admitted, “Guess that makes me the asshole.”

Trevor went on, “Okay. All things are made up of molecules. Wouldn’t it be neat-o if you could take something that you didn’t need and re-arrange its molecules into something you did need? Like taking a cardboard box and transforming it into glass for a solar panel.”

Omar said, “I am thinking that Mr. Stone is being overly simplicity in his words. But if it is here then we have found the important piece of an alien factory.”

“And that’s both good and bad,” Trevor told them. “Something like that working for us could help with supply problems.”

Reverend Johnny boomed, “Praise the all mighty! Where is the bad?”

“The bad,” Trevor said, “is that it means the new arrivals on our planet have the means to set up their own heavy industry. It means, gentlemen, that they’re here to stay.”

*

Jon pointed to the map on the desktop in the Command Center.

“We found a bunch of Redcoats here, but they weren’t a problem after a few bursts from the artillery.”

Trevor said, “It’s been nearly a week since we broke them up, and there are still some of them around?”

“Shows you how lucky we got. They’re tough, especially once they establish a position. Problem is, however many are left they are running out of food and ammo.”

A week since the battle for Wilkes-Barre, the true scope of the victory was becoming apparent. Not only had they managed an against-all-odds rout of a larger, better-armed opponent, but the Redcoat army had slaughtered hundreds of hostile animals.

Before the battle, Wilkes-Barre hosted a den of nightmares. Not any more. Despite their defeat, the Redcoats had thinned the monsters in the city while also leaving behind their artillery, stores of the explosive powder used in those guns, and many chargeable Redcoat muskets.

Trevor did not want to waste the opportunity. Jon formed small Grenadier-assisted recon teams who spotted for artillery strikes on clusters of dangerous animals.

Trevor and Nina piloted the one remaining fully functional Apache in alternating shifts around the clock while Jon’s teams moved through the Wyoming Valley. From a multi-legged turtle the size of a garbage truck with the head of a praying mantis to a demoralized squad of Redcoats hiding inside a Dairy Queen surviving on very old Blizzard mix, the Apache, the captured artillery, and the ground teams worked in unison to eliminate the threats.

Better still, they found a dozen survivors. While badly malnourished, they were the toughest of the tough, for they had lived in the lion’s den for months.

Trevor asked Jon, “So what do you think? We don’t need to rush things. All the same…”

“All the same,” Jon caught on, “you’d like to have control of this city.”

“It’d be a big step, but I’m patient. We still don’t have a lot of manpower.”

Jon answered, “Wow, well, we can take this slow but I think we can have a good chunk of center city and the northern suburbs cleared out in a week.”

“What about the West Side?” Trevor meant the collection of boroughs and townships lining Route 11 on the west bank of the Susquehanna.

“That’s going easy. There doesn’t seem to be a lot over there. Must not have been a big enough population to feed all the predators or something.”

Trevor solemnly reminded, “Could be that there weren’t a lot of people over there when this started. A lot of them got…got vaporized.”

Brewer remembered that Ashley had lived on the West Side. He said nothing.

Trevor forced himself into a lighter mood. “In any case, damn good job. Let’s keep it up. We take Wilkes-Barre before the snow really starts and we’ll be in good shape for the long haul. Got to be a lot of shit in the stores and stuff down there. Don’t forget the police station.”

“The armory,” Jon referred to the Pennsylvania National Guard’s 109th Field Artillery armory. It held big guns, fuel supplies, uniforms, medical kits, self-propelled artillery, Humvees, Bradley Fighting Vehicles, and even a few of the advanced Strykers.

“Can we take it?”

“I’m clearing out around it first. Once I know we’re not going to be in the middle of some sort of ambush we’ll move in.” Jon cleared his throat and changed the subject: “So, everything is…um…set for tonight. One of Stonewall’s guys ran projectors before all this.”

“Thanks for, you know, taking care of that. I appreciate it and all. We’ve been alternating shifts in the Apache all week and haven’t had time to, well, see each other, you know.”

“Geez, you’d think you were launching a major offensive,” Jon joked.

Trevor considered and answered, “You know, I think I am.”

*

Trevor’s Humvee with a Suburban trailing behind as escort pulled in the parking lot that a week ago had served as the assembly area for the Redcoat army. Parked in that lot sat the four air ships the vanquished aliens left behind.

Trevor spied Omar walking alongside one of the ships as the long shadows of early evening stretched across the pavement. Grenadiers and human sentries stood watch.

“Omar, baby! Whachya got for me?” Trevor beamed.

“Oh, it is so good to be seeing you, Mr. Trevor, Sir!” Omar replied with his sarcasm and forced accent. “I much prefer the company of you and our furry friends to that of my wife and family. Please be sure to be telling my children hello and how are you for me tonight.”

Between the power problems, the recovered matter transformation equipment, and the Redcoats’ goodies, Omar had little time for sleep or family. However, one of the Wilkes-Barre survivors had been a physics teacher with a high-tech head on his shoulders. Trevor hoped that, after he regained his strength, the man could help Omar.

Trevor approached the air ship. The landing gear that sprouted from the four corner pods held the main body a few feet above the ground. Both sides of the passenger module had doors with retractable entry ramps. Trevor ascended the starboard ramp and found a series of buttons next to the door. He pushed the largest one and the door slid open revealing a dark compartment.

“You must first be turning on the lights,” Omar stated the obvious.

Dr. Nehru found another set of buttons just inside the door. One of them activated light panels built into the ceiling. They flickered to life with sterile illumination—like fluorescent lights—in the gray, black, and white interior. The two men waded in.

Two rows of seats designed for the larger Redcoat bodies ran the length of the passenger module. Storage compartments lined the walls, filled with even more salvageable equipment. At the rear stood a thick door that resembled a watertight bulkhead on a submarine.

“Back there is were the engine is being,” Omar pointed. “Very cramped but the engines are very much compact.”

To the front waited another door activated by a button on a panel. It led to the cockpit.

The windshield stretched across the front of the cockpit but it was rather thin and restricted visibility. Two big seats sat at control panels beneath the window. The controls on either side appeared identical, no doubt for a pilot and co-pilot. Pedals sprouted from the floor in front of both chairs. Each seat had two tilting armrests with big pistol-grip sticks at the ends. The sticks reminded Stone of manual shifters in a sports car.

For the Redcoats, the space in the pilot’s capsule might have felt a little tight. For a human being, it offered a surprising amount of shoulder, leg and headroom.

“This is going to take some figuring,” Trevor, standing between cockpit seats, contemplated while Omar walked off to examine the engine compartment.

Trevor knew he could not ‘pick up’ how to operate the airship. After all, humans had not designed the machine so—

He swooned from a sudden bout of lightheadedness. The cockpit faded away, replaced by visions…

…visions of a sky dominated by two suns, one slightly larger than the other, beating down on plains of glassy pebbles and mountains of red rocks; of majestic cities built from colorful stones sitting on the banks of massive rivers straddled by gigantic dams; of buildings made to hover above the ground with no support below; of a people dressed in colorful outfits and the trappings of royalty; of ships defying gravity and gliding through the air; of an army of white and red clad soldiers marching in tight rows toward a black and gray archway crackling with bolts of electricity…

…Trevor pinched his nose. The dizziness faded.

He saw the cockpit once again; saw it in a new light.

This is not possible.

*

Nina had all the gear the mission required. Her uniform fit perfectly: blue jeans, suede boots, a black sweater and a leather jacket. Of course, she also carried an M4 carbine as well as a side arm. A girl couldn’t be too careful.

Next to her waited Odin the elkhound, who felt as if he might be part of her uniform for he rarely left her side.

Nina checked her watch: 6:10 p.m. Trevor promised to pick her up at six. With a convoy, of course. This would be the best-armed date in the history of mankind. Her father would have approved.

Standing in the driveway outside the A-Frame, she saw Grenadiers walking their rounds as dusk dwindled but no sign of Trevor.

Odin whimpered. She knelt next to the pooch and stroked his head.

“You wouldn’t think he’d keep a hot chick waiting like this, do you?”

Odin grew agitated and searched the sky with his eyes and nose.

Suddenly, one of the boxy Redcoat flying ships swooped overhead, banked, then flew to the end her driveway where it eased to the pavement moving eerily quiet.

Nina pointed her machine gun and cautiously retreated a step.

A ramp extended and the side door slid open. Bright light from the passenger compartment spilled into the twilight.

“Hey, baby!” A familiar voice yelled. “Wanna go for a ride in my mean ma-cheen?”

*

Trevor said again. “I shouldn’t be able to do this. I don’t understand how I, how I…”

“How you ‘picked it up’?”

“Yeah.”

He flew the ship from the pilot’s seat while Nina sat on the opposite side with her eyes darting around the cockpit. Trevor wore headgear resembling a combination of headphones and goggles and used rubber bands to hold the oversized contraption on his head.

“Well, join the rest of us. Are you ever going to explain how you ‘pick these things up’?”

He dodged the question: “Awe, shucks, ma’am. And take away all the mystery?”

The craft glided effortlessly. It did not feel as if they flew; more as if they rode in a luxury sedan across perfectly smooth pavement.

“I’ve made an executive decision,” he said. “We’re going to call these things Eagles. Just like our old national bird.”

“Eagles?” The idea struck her as funny. “Not very graceful-looking. More like Volvos, I think; boxy and all.”

He chuckled then said, “The nose cone is like a beak; real sharp looking. Besides, they may not look slick but they sure as hell fly with the grace of an Eagle.”

Nina shrugged at the whole name thing and asked a more important question: “So, you going to tell me how this thing works? I’ve noticed there are no wings.”

“I don’t know all the engineering. I mean, I know what to do but not why it does it. It has something to do with an anti-gravity circuit that runs through the thing. It sort of repels gravity like the same ends of a magnet repel each other. I increase the power to the anti-grav circuit and we go up or vice versa. Then there’s just straight hydrogen thrust coming out the back.”

“Armaments?”

“No. But we can change that. Just like there’s no night vision or infrared. There is something like radar but it’s limited.”

Nina, surprised, said, “How could a race of people who know how to make anti-gravity circuits and energy weapons not have infrared or night vision?”

“How is it we put a man on the moon but can’t cure the common cold? Different technology trees, I guess. By the way the Redcoats shut down at nightfall, maybe they came from somewhere where the sun shines most of the time. I dunno.”

“And the goggle things? Which, by the way, look way-cool on you.”

“Sarcasm dully noted. But you couldn’t fly one of these things just looking out the window. Right now, it’s as if I am the ship. My forward view is unobstructed. It’s amazing—try them on; there’s another pair next to your seat.”

She found the oversized headgear and held it with both hands. As the goggles slid over her eyes, it felt as if she stepped outside of the ship. The night sky surrounded her, with the moon above and black, rolling countryside below.

The sensation was one of her body flying through the air. It took a few seconds, but she stifled the thrill of the view and thought in practical terms again.

The view inside the goggles included a heads-up display with indecipherable symbols: most certainly a data stream.

“Have you figured all this out?”

“No,” he told her. “I can’t read their language. But the thing at the bottom right is sort of a heading indicator. I can kinda follow that back to the Wyoming Valley Mall.”

She removed the head set.

“Kinda? Kinda? You’re flying blind at night in an alien plane that you’re not even sure you know how to fly?”

He smiled and admitted, “Yeah. I’m flying blind tonight. But I was doing that before I had the ship.”

She understood, shrugged, and conceded, “I guess that makes two of us.”

*

Dinner and a movie sounded simple. First, they went to the Grotto Pizza restaurant outside of the Wyoming Valley Mall and ate by candle light.

Nina had hoped he had somehow scrounged a pizza but instead ate from a picnic basket he brought including chicken from the farms, instant soup, and canned asparagus, all chased by cold Amstel Lights.

“Oh, look, they’re almost cute,” Nina kidded when the things resembling shaved squirrels with glowing tales and fibrous wings gathered on the windows. The glow in the tails came from acid. Acid that ate through glass.

After evacuating the restaurant, Trevor and Nina moved to stage two.

The projectionist Jon had found for the night was able to start up the equipment inside the mall’s cinemas. When Trevor and Nina arrived, they found Kristy Kaufman taking “tickets” and playing usher with Dante Jones running the snack bar. A portable generator got the popcorn machine popping and ran the projectors. Trevor and Nina saw thirty minutes of a romantic comedy before the film melted and the popcorn machine caught fire.

Instead of lamenting the disaster, Nina did something Trevor had never seen before. She laughed. She could not stop laughing. As a result, he laughed too.

They left the ‘Eagle’ under watch and traveled home in a convoy, killing two hostiles along the way.

Trevor escorted Nina to her apartment and paused at the base of the stairs.

“Sorry this wasn’t exactly a night on the town,” he apologized.

She answered, “Everything went pretty much as I expected.”

“Oh, now that’s just cold.”

“Listen, we got back alive, right? I’m just saying that that ain’t half bad these days.”

He had seen her smile more that night than in all the weeks before combined. In that, he found some victory.

“I hope you’ll give me a chance again soon. Good night,” he told her.

Nina’s brow crinkled.

He asked, defensively, “What? What is it? What’d I do?”

“Well,” she tried to be cute but she could not help grinning a big dumb-ass grin. “I mean, this kind of was our first date so shouldn’t we, you know, have, like, a good night kiss?”

“Oh,” Trevor considered. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

He leaned in slowly. Despite smiling uncontrollably, Nina prepared her lips.

Trevor’s mouth drew closer…closer…then pulled away.

“I didn’t earn it,” he smirked. “Next time.”

*

Trevor walked into the room. The afternoon sun beamed in through the windows illuminating the dust stirred to life by his movement. He sat on the bed.

The room felt both very familiar and foreign at the same time; like visiting a high school classroom years after graduation.

“I came to say goodbye,” he told the room.

No one answered.

“I’m moving on now. I have to. I’m sorry I wasn’t here with you when… when it happened. I’m sorry all of our plans got shot to Hell. I really wanted to dance with you. I wanted to see you wearing that gown.”

He gazed at the wedding dress on the floor.

“I bet you looked spectacular,” his gaze rose to the full-length mirror. He could see the ghost of Ashley wearing the dress and smiling. “I bet you were gorgeous.”

He picked up the dress. He held it close. He hoped maybe he could catch one last whiff of her. Instead, he nearly sneezed from the coating of dust.

“Thank you for caring about me, Ashley. Up until ‘all this’ I thought I was worthless and a nobody. Then you fell for me. Why? I’ll never understand. Thank you all the same. You made me feel…you made me feel like a man. But I have to move on now. I can’t be haunted by this anymore. I’m not going to feel guilty for caring about someone else. Nina is…different. I’m different now, too. You might not even like me these days. I don’t know if I like myself. But I love her. I know that as sure as I know anything. I can’t let her slip away because I’m holding on to a world that doesn’t exist anymore.”

He walked to the closet, slipped the dress on a hanger, and then gently closed the door.

“So this is farewell. Ashley, I…” he felt he should say ‘I love you.’ Yet those words did not feel as true as he once thought.

“Ashley, I’m sorry things happened like this. Goodbye.”

Walking After Midnight

Trevor paced the command center addressing six brave volunteers. He deliberately made eye contact with each of them, one after another.

“Remember, your job is to find out what’s in our neighborhood and report back. Don’t get into any fights.”

The scouts divided into three pairs: McBride and Woody Ross would head west, Cassy Simms and Bird east, while Dante and Kristy Kaufman drew the northern route.

“Keep an eye on the weather. We could get a big snowstorm any day now. If you can go out as far as a hundred miles, great, but use your judgment. You’re looking for survivors and threats. Point survivors in our direction. A couple of days, no more. You can’t carry much in the way of supplies in those hover bikes anyway. Oh, and there won’t be any rescue missions. You disappear we can’t go looking for you. We wouldn’t know where to start.”

Dante blew Trevor a kiss.

“I love you too.”

*

Nina walked an afternoon patrol with Tolbert and Odin the Elkhound under a silky gray sky. They patrolled the lake perimeter road stopping to search vacant cottages, dilapidated bars, and crumbling ice cream stands.

Tolbert heard movement from “Joe’s Pizza Parlor” and the two patrollers peered in a rear window. They saw Trevor—half his body blanketed in white powder—working around a giant mixer surrounded by bags of flour and something labeled ‘Qualbake’.

Tolbert asked, “What is he doing?”

“I think he’s trying to make dough for a pizza,” Nina answered.

“Man, he must really like pizza.”

She thought of the ‘surprise’ Trevor promised for their second date.

“No, but I do.”

*

Nina presented Trevor with a list of requirements for their second date. First, she did not want to shoot anything. Second, she did not want a crowd participating and, finally, she wanted to find out something about his life before ‘all this’.

Such conditions left only one option: he came to her apartment above the A-Frame’s garage with a pizza box from Joe’s, a bottle of red wine, and a CD. She met him at the door in a green turtle neck and jeans.

As for the pizza, the cheese posed the greatest challenge. Reluctantly, he used Parmesan because he could not find any edible caches of cheddar or mozzarella. But the dough—after sifting out infestations of bugs from the old flour—and the canned sauce turned out good. For a post-Armageddon pizza, it did not taste half-bad despite the odd cheese.

After dinner, they left the eat-in kitchen and migrated with wineglasses in hand to the living room. Trevor slipped a CD into the stereo and hit the “play” button before sitting on the couch next to Nina at a respectful distance.

After a moment, a woman crooned a gentle ballad

I go out walking, after midnight, out in the moonlight, just like we used to do…

She gazed at him in a manner that asked a question without saying a word.

“Patsy Cline,” he answered.

“Patsy Cline? Well, that’s a surprise.”

Trevor explained the connection with his eyes pointing toward her but seeing something far away, long ago. He returned to his old world and she traveled with him.

“You haven’t seen it all until you’ve seen my dad and mom listening to Patsy. Patsy or Elvis. That is, cool 50’s Elvis not fat Elvis. I mean, we used to drive to my grandma’s out by Pittsburgh, back when I was a kid. It was like a five-hour drive. Super boring. So we’d listen to what my dad called ‘the classics.’ He’d put in a Patsy cassette and my parents would start mouthing the words to each other as they drove along. Then they’d turn and sing to me, then each other again. All the way out to Pittsburgh.

“My dad—seeing his lips moving and hearing Patsy Cline—I mean, you could only watch that for so long before you cracked up. Poor mom would laugh right at him. Both of us would, and he’d just keep on lip syncing.”

His vision returned to Nina. She smiled; just a little.

“You really miss your parents, don’t you?”

His happiness faltered. She hurried, “What do you remember most about them?”

He sipped his wine and considered.

“You know, I think it’s how much they liked each other. I don’t mean just loved. Of course they loved each other; they married and had a wonderful kid, right?”

“Right.”

He narrowed his eyes for emphasis. “But they really liked each other. They liked talking to each other and going places. I always felt I was a part of that, too.”

“That’s nice.”

The second track of the CD replaced the first.

Sweet dreams of you…every night I go through …

Trevor asked, “What about you? What do you miss about before?”

Nina set her glass on the coffee table and stared at her folded hands silently.

“What? What is it?”

She exhaled louder than she should have.

He said, “Go on, tell me. I can handle it.”

“When you sent me out…” she stopped and rephrased. “When you had me go out and wipe out the Red Hands…well, one night the guys were sitting around the campfire talking about everything they missed. Sharing stories; stuff like that.”

“Yes?”

“They were swapping stories and I…” she stumbled.” I was cleaning my rifle. Breaking it down and cleaning it.”

She pulled her eyes away from her hands and threw them to him, but Trevor could not see her point; he only saw her discomfort.

“I was cleaning my rifle for the fourth time that night. It didn’t need to be cleaned.”

He shrugged his shoulders because he still did not understand.

“So I’m listening and I tried to think of what I missed from before all this.”

“What was it you missed?”

Nina did not answer with words. Her eyes drooped and her hands fidgeted.

Trevor answered for her: “Nothing. There was nothing you missed.”

She nodded slowly. It seemed to him that Nina expected to be judged.

“Nina, you can’t blame yourself for that.”

“Before all this happened I was always different. I felt out of place. I heard the people I worked with or the other kids I went to school with talk about their problems and whatever was their big deal of the week and all that. To me it always seemed stupid. Ridiculous. Like wondering what tune the band was going to play while the Titanic is sinking.”

“But now?”

“Now it’s different. Now I know why I am what I am.”

“Who you are. You’re not a what, Nina.”

She went on, “The truth is that I’m more comfortable—more at home—in this world than the old one. The truth is that there is a part of me that likes all this. A part of me that would miss it if things went back to normal tomorrow.”

Not sadness now. Something else. He guessed, “Guilt? You feel guilty, don’t you?”

She bowed her head. “I feel guilty about a lot of things, but not this.”

It astonished him to realize, “You’re ashamed. No, no. That’s not right.”

“Everyone around me misses something or is fighting to put things back to the way they were. Me? It feels like this is what I was born for.”

He said, “That just means you’ve had a purpose all your life, something that most people never know. I can tell you there are a lot of things at work here in ’all this’. For some reason, you’ve been given direction. But that doesn’t mean it’s the only thing in you. There’s a lot more. I know that.”

Did he get through? He could not be sure. One thing he had learned about Nina Forest: getting through to her meant a lot of work. Whatever lay hidden inside that woman had long ago been surrounded by minefields and barbed wire and walls. It would not be enough to break in; she would have to try to work her way out from behind the defenses.

A familiar string of cords drifted from the speakers. Trevor broke the silence not with words, but by standing in front of her as she sat on the sofa and he held an open hand to her.

“May I have this dance, miss?”

Crazy…I’m crazy for feeling so lonely…

Her eyes widened like a deer in a headlight.

“I don’t dance. Or…I don’t dance very good.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t dance very good either.”

She searched for another excuse.

“I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

He looked left, looked right, then returned his eyes to her.

“There’s no one watching.”

What she said next nearly made him melt on the spot. He actually felt his legs weaken.

“You’re watching.”

He studied her. He knew her strength. Despite all that strength and courage there she sat, vulnerable. Afraid not of some monster conjured by that insane new world but by something so basic and human.

He whispered, “I promise not to stare.”

She hesitated. Her eyes blinked bashfully.

Trevor asked her to, “Take a chance.”

Her hand rose slowly, tentatively, until finding his grasp. Trevor guided her to the middle of the small living room where he gently grasped her right hand with his left and politely slipped his other arm around her waist. She searched for an awkward second before placing her free hand on his shoulder.

He swayed her gently and found her blue eyes. As he did, his body trembled. There he stood, the great leader who had vanquished a legion of nightmares trembling with fear even though he danced as conservatively with her as if her father, pastor, and big brother watched.

Nerves translated into mumbled words.

“See, you’re doing just fine. Why, you’re a regular—”

“Shut…up,” she softly stopped his babbling.

Nina closed her eyes and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He felt her lean against him. More than her weight: her entire person. She placed herself in his arms. Trevor wondered if she had ever done such a thing before. Yet, a strange thing happened as she did. His trembling—that fear—slipped…quietly…away.

As he felt her give to him, his strength grew. Strength greater, more powerful than all the gifts of the Old Man or any other force in that new world.

She slipped both hands around his waist and stepped closer. He felt the pulse of her heart. He felt her at peace. He felt himself there, too.

…and I’m crazzzyyy…for lovin’…youuuuu…

She whispered as much to herself as to him, “This isn’t easy for me.”

He answered, “I know.”

She must have felt the need to explain further. She pulled her head away from his shoulder to tell him—

— the very tips of their noses brushed. Trevor felt certain his heart stopped. It was instantly the greatest single moment of his life.

A magnetism pulled their lips together for that first, magical time. Soft and gentle and long and oh-so-nice. Everything they could possibly hope it to be. And it served as only the start. There would be no turning back.

In a world where merely living another day seemed a tall request, they found no reason to stop what they both wanted so much; what they had both waited so long for already.

They kissed again and again. She pressed against him; he pulled her even closer. Her body…her whole person…hugged him…an intoxicating feeling and unbearably exciting. Yet as forceful the emotion, as powerful as they both were, their embrace remained gentle, not harsh.

His hands felt along her waist and back. Such a perfectly sculpted frame. He knew her body to be well built for battle. Now he felt those lines and curves offered in passion.

Somewhere…far, far away…another melody crooned from the stereo.

Nina did not consider or think. She knew she had instincts for a steady trigger finger, a quick and powerful blow. She found other instincts dwelling beneath the surface. Nina let the longing for her that radiated from Trevor unlock it.

Her hands slid under his pullover shirt, which went up and off, forcing his arms from her waist into the air. She first kissed his smooth chest then moved those kisses to the base of his neck before finding his lips again. Her hands encouragingly stroked across his upper body.

She felt the goose bumps on his flesh and knew the reason for them: he was electric for her. She had never been the object of such complete desire, certainly not in this way. And she wanted him, too, so strongly that she nearly drowned in the emotion.

Her heart—that cast iron lock box—splintered and broke open as if it had been made of glass. Never before had she been so willing to give everything. Now she wanted nothing less than giving all. The defenses tumbled down. The minefields and barbed wire and walls could not slow the tsunami of emotion breaking loose from the prison within.

She trusted him completely with her heart and she craved offering it to him.

As her clothes came off—some by her own hand, others by his—she did not wonder if she would be judged. Just as she knew, even before their bodies twisted and rolled together first on the sofa then in the bedroom, that she would be happy, and pleased, and satisfied.

No insecurity. No bashfulness. No hesitation. Best of all, there were smiles and laughs. This was not desperate love, it felt exciting and new and fun. Happy.

As Trevor felt and caressed her bare person, he was amazed. So strong, everywhere. Her legs, her abbs; that same body that could be unforgiving and destructive could also be warm and inviting.

He had been with only one other lover in his life. That did not matter now, because she would be the end for him. He could not imagine anything more wonderful, more fulfilling, or more exhilarating than holding Nina…

…moving with her as her back arched…her body tensed…shivered… as she straddled him while her short ponytail bobbed and swayed.

Then to feel her beneath…her rigid and firm muscles…her legs wrapped around him…despite her might she still surrendered.

Her sighs—so gentle for a woman who proved so powerful.

Her body was so perfect in the ways she used it—sometimes passively, sometimes more direct—so wonderful that no man dare ask for more. Yet, he found the greatest satisfaction in her eyes. When he looked into them, he could see that she went far beyond flesh and energy. That she gave everything.

He knew that gift to be precious. He knew what a chance she took. He knew because he gave her more than he had ever given to anyone before. More than he thought possible to give.

When their endurance reached its breaking point; after their bodies expended every last drop of energy, after their passion had been fully fed and satisfied, they fell together and slept peacefully through their first night of being in love.

Round Trip

Trevor and Nina sat in the church basement picking at scrambled eggs and bacon.

Lori Brewer—wearing one of the biggest, cockiest grins ever seen by the likes of man—carried her tray over and sat at the table across from the two.

“Mind if I join you?”

Nina welcomed, “Hey. No, sit down.”

“So…”

“Don’t,” Trevor stopped her. “Don’t or I’ll have to—”

Reverend Johnny rushed into the basement shouting, “Hells bells! Raise the alarm and man the battlements!”

They discarded their trays and hurried from the church. Trevor and Nina flanked Johnny as they jogged the road toward the estate where a convoy of dangerous newcomers waited: an Abrams tank, six big deuce and a half cargo trucks, one empty flatbed, two military Humvees with 50 caliber weapons mounted on top, and another Humvee with a TOW missile launcher as well as a pair of camouflage-painted SUVs.

Trevor, Nina, Johnny and the rest felt naked in front of such firepower. There they stood in the cold morning air facing off against a main battle tank and enough firepower to obliterate them in seconds.

Soldiers dressed in full US Army battle gear disembarked from the trucks as did a ragtag group of civilians including parents and young kids, teenagers, a few elderly, and more.

The hatch on the Abrams flew open. An early thirty-something soldier stuck his head out.

“Shit, you fellows were pretty hard to find.” The man hoisted himself from the cupola.

Trevor asked, “What can we do for you, soldier?”

The man tilted and scratched his head. “Well, gee, that wasn’t the welcome I had been expecting, considering that the two guys we met out by State College said you people were taking in refugees.”

Trevor’s jaw dropped. Refugees? These guys?

“Name’s Major Tom Prescott. This here is what’s left of the U.S. Army, near as I can tell. We’ve been wandering around for the last few months looking for a good way to die. Then we saw ‘Bear’ Ross west of here yesterday. You know he was a linebacker for the ‘Skins? Anyway, he gave us directions and told us you were putting things back together.”

Trevor’s concern morphed into smiles as Prescott jumped off the tank.

“Glad to meet you, Major.”

*

They gathered in the Command Center on the second floor of the estate. Stonewall, Shepherd, Jon Brewer, Nina Forest, Omar, and Reverend Johnny joined the discussion that included Prescott and his key people.

From power issues to the food supply to available munitions, Stone explained the situation at the estate to the new arrivals. Major Prescott shared what he brought to the table: one hundred trained U.S. soldiers including ten engineers and three chopper pilots as well as nearly half that number in civilians they had picked up along the way.

Ammunition for the Abrams was in good supply but it ate so much fuel they tended to leave it on the flatbed. They also carried plenty of small arms munitions, grenades, and mines. The fifty-caliber guns were well stocked but only one shot remained for the TOW.

After the Major catalogued his inventory, Trevor asked the question on everyone’s mind: “What happened?”

The Major understood the question. He took a deep breath, scratched the side of his head, and told the story.

“We were at a base in Missouri doing a training program with the Mizzou National Guard. Fact is, though, no one was ready. Not the police, not the army, and especially not the politicians. You got to remember how an army is put together. There’s an order of battle. There are procedures. When you go marching off to war, it takes weeks to put the pieces together. It isn’t just about bullets and bombs; it’s about supplies and orders.”

Brewer added, “There were some units that got mobilized.”

“Sure,” Prescott agreed. “But organized for what? What do you do when monsters are popping up everywhere you turn? We woke up one morning in June and found monsters running through the base gobbling people up. Christ-Jesus, a lot of the guys on base…I mean…they had families, you know? You think they ran to the parade grounds to line up in neat ranks to go marching off to save St. Louis? We were fighting for our lives from the get-go.”

Trevor rested a hand on Prescott’s shoulder. “Relax. This isn’t about blame. We just want to know.”

“Oh man, you couldn’t blame any of us more than we blame ourselves. Most of us spent our lives getting ready to fight for, well you know, God and country and all that. But this type of war…it wasn’t war. It was like we suddenly got thrown down in the middle of the jungle with hungry lions surrounding us. Do you know how long it took just to get off base?”

Prescott shook his head and stared at the floor.

“It took a couple of days to get our house in order. Pardon my French, but things were really messed up. I don’t know how many of our guys died that first day—a lot of them were in town for the weekend, you know? So any way, they finally got the armory opened up and started getting out the big guns. By the third day we had most of the base cleared out but, Christ-Jesus, the things kept flooding in at us. We killed things by the bucket load.”

Trevor said, “I’m guessing that was the story all over. If it weren’t for how much you guys did do in those first few weeks things would’ve been worse.”

“Oh now, we weren’t patting ourselves on the back. We knew how bad it was out there. We saw the news reports. Thank God, the phones went out because for those first few days guys would be getting calls from folks back home. Man, you ever, you ever…” Prescott closed his eyes. “…you ever listen to someone you love begging for help? Begging…when you could hear something banging in the door and your kid screaming for his daddy? You ever do that?”

Hands from both Johnny and Brewer joined Trevor’s on Prescott’s shoulders.

He sniffled, stood straight, and opened his eyes.

“So, yeah, anyway. Once we got things under control, we were told to march on out and save the day. Yessir. Save the day. We had some of our tanks and plenty of bullets. We even had enough guys to do some good. But what did they tell us to do? What do you think?”

Prescott glanced around the room, a look of contempt rippling across his face.

He spoke again in a mocking voice: “Yeah, send some of your guys here…send some more over here. That’s right, let’s go plug all the holes in the dike all at once. Our big unit that could have dished out damage was turned into a bunch of little units. We did stuff, but not nearly what we could have done. We wiped out a crap load of these, like, Indian fellows with spears and crap. I mean, they charged our tanks with spears! Can you believe that?”

Prescott shook his head at the morbid memory.

“Sometime around the fourth of July we ran into these big things. Christ-Jesus, they were bigger than cars and had teeth that kind of…God…reached out and grabbed you. They tore the turret off one of our tanks, you know? Must’ve killed twenty of our guys before we put them down with heavy shells. Pardon my French but they were straight from Hell, I think.”

Shepherd and Brewer shared a glance.

“So anyway, then we start seeing organized things. I guess aliens, right? We get dive bombed by these strange planes and run into a bunch of lizards driving like these little tanks. Flames…lasers…crap like that. Blasted them, too. But they were really organized, and there were a lot of them. Spent a week or two fighting battles here and there with those things. Lost a lot of guys. We headed north, they didn’t follow.”

Trevor did not ask all the questions he wanted to ask. For now. In time, Prescott could offer a wealth of information as to what lay beyond the valley walls.

“Sometime around late-July the dropped a couple of pallets of supplies for us. I think we were in Ohio around then. We were supposed to hook up with the Ohio National Guard. We got to where they were supposed to be and didn’t find anyone. Well, you know, any one alive.”

Brewer asked, “What did you hear about the chain of command?”

Prescott snickered. “Oh we had tons of people yanking our chain of command. Most of our unit officers got torn up early on. We had a Colonel running our group for a few weeks until something swooped on down and carried him off. That’s when I took over. I started getting all sorts of stuff over the radio. One minute it’s the Governor of Missouri telling me what to do, then it’s the Governor—I mean, Lieutenant Governor—of Ohio. The Pentagon sent some orders. Hey, we had no rest and were running out of guys but we never ran out of orders.”

Nina asked, “How’d the rest of the military do? What’d you hear?”

“Heard California was putting up a hell of a fight; dogfights in the skies over San Fran and big ground battles. The Air Force was kicking ass all over the country until they started running out of bases and fuel. After July, though, we weren’t hearing much. Rumor had it the top guns—you know the brass—got wiped out. Don’t know about that, though.”

“Tell me mister Prescott, sir,” Omar asked. “What about the President?”

Prescott scratched his head again as if the memories needed help coming forth.

“Well, I suppose you heard he got out of DC early on, right? The only thing I heard after that were some Pentagon folks saying he had lost freedom of movement. I guess they were having real trouble with communications and such. Point is, by August there was no President any more. No Congress. Nothing. Last I heard in September there were still a lot of army units fighting in California and the navy was out there doing some good, but otherwise there wasn’t any U.S. military any more. Same goes for overseas. The Russians got their asses kicked, or so I heard, but no details. As for us, we got torn apart little pieces at a time. Like piranha on an elephant, I suppose.”

Shepherd nodded. “I figure we all guessed that’s how it went down.”

Trevor said, “Couldn’t have happened any other way. I think the troops could have handled one big army dropping from the sky. Not the chaos, though. Not all at once.”

“We had no warning, no time to prepare,” Prescott gripped his fists tight. “When I look back, I can think of a thousand things I would have done different. I’ll tell you, I would have turned off my radio. What’s that they say? Yeah, too many chefs, you know?”

Stonewall said, “Perhaps, Mr. Prescott, divine providence has steered you through the shattered lands to this place where you can fight once again with a purpose.”

The Major sighed and changed the subject. “Maybe. In the meantime, I suppose it’d be a good idea for Mr. Nehru here to take the engineers under his wing and put them to use.”

“Oh my goodness yes,” Omar beamed.

“That sounds like a plan,” Trevor agreed but his thoughts already raced ahead with a flurry of ideas now that trained and armed soldiers had joined the estate. Nonetheless, one issue hung in the air. As the meeting broke, Trevor took Prescott aside.

“Major, there is something we need to talk about.”

The soldier raised his hand.

“Don’t worry none. I’ve spent the last six months barely surviving and wasting a lot of men’s lives. I look ‘round here and, geez, you’ve been doing some damn fine work. So yeah, I know whose giving the orders.”

*

One day later, Trevor formed a council of advisors. Evan Godfrey’s enthusiasm for the move faded when Trevor eschewed elections and handpicked the members.

Ironically, Godfrey’s work in helping new arrivals earned him a spot on the council overseeing housing and needs. Trevor put Reverend Johnny in charge of medical concerns and appointed Brewer as the point man for combat issues (with Prescott assisting).

Dante—still out scouting—would head internal security. This met with grumbles but Trevor wanted Dante on that council; the man had a way of seeing both sides of coins, even if his background lay in computers, not policing. Trevor knew that his best law enforcement people—Shep and Nina—would be needed on the front lines, not on guard duty.

Trevor placed Lori Brewer in charge of resident tracking and convinced Eva Rheimmer to travel in from her farm periodically to discuss the food supply.

Finally, Omar would handle “Science and Technology”.

At the first council meeting—sans Dante—Evan bitched about the need for elected representation. Omar bitched about too many projects and not enough help. Reverend Johnny bitched about the lack of medical facilities. Eva Rheimmer bitched about having to travel all the way in from the farm to listen to all the bitching.

*

On December 10th “Bear” Ross and McBride returned after having traveled all the way to Grove City in western Pennsylvania. During that trip, they contacted more than twenty survivors and spied a slew of solitary alien animals but no organized threats.

The next day Bird and Cassy Simms arrived home after having pushed far into New Jersey with the same results albeit on a grander scale: if all the people they met during their scouting trip managed to return to the estate then the ranks of survivors would grow by more than one hundred.

Dante and Kristy Kaufman completed their round trip on December 12th but brought no good news. Instead, they found something ominous outside of Binghamton, New York.

Trevor stared at a photograph as the council and other prominent survivors gathered in the command center.

Dante told them, “It’s one hellish looking thing. I mean, you stand anywhere near it and there’s like an electricity in the air.”

Kristy added, “And lightning. All up there above it. Flashes in the sky.”

The sphere in the photo stretched ten stories tall. It did not look as if it had been built; more as if it had been grown.

“Something bad, man,” Dante explained. “I tell you, it gives me the creeps.”

“And there’s things guarding it, too,” Kristy said. “Disgusting things.”

Reverend Johnny looked at the photo. “Perhaps it belongs to The Order, but I’m not sure.”

Trevor tapped the picture.

I know someone who can.

*

“I don’t be needin’ no picture,” the Old Man said. “I know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.”

“So it’s a gateway.” Trevor stood by the fire in the forest.

“Boy, you’ve gotten really smart since the last time we powwowed.”

“So these gateways are how all the aliens got here so they could kill off mankind.”

“I just knew you were gunna start thinkin’ you figured this shit out. Lemme tell you somethin’, if this was about killin’ off mankind you’d all be killed off by now. Some of the things out there, hell, they could rip the at-mos-fere off this world. Shit, some could crack the core and roast marshmallows on your cities as the whole ball of wax melts from the inside out.”

“So what? So what is all of this about?”

The Old Man clued him in…a little.

“It’s about defeat’n mankind. Beatin’. Sub-jew-gait-ing. Killin’ ya’ll off, that’d be sort of anti-climatic. Turnin’ ya’ll into second-class nobody’s, now that’s an accomplishment. But it ain’t my job to go fillin’ you in on all this. Mind your bees wax.”

“Wait a sec,” Trevor formed an idea. “What if there’s a way to reverse the gates: suck everything back to where it came from.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Old Man encouraged. “In one shot you could go sendin’ em’ all packin’! Why, it’d be over lickity-split!”

The Old Man paused for a moment to let his sarcasm sink in and then mocked, “What you expectin’? You think there’s an exhaust port on this Death Star? One lucky shot and—whammo—everything is as right as rain? Maybe you haven’t seen the light of it yet. Face it, whatchya got here is an ole’ fashioned slugfest, Trev. The Martians ain’t gunna catch cold and die. You can’t kill the mother creature and all the little ones waste away. No magic bullets.”

“So, what? It doesn’t matter about this gate thing?”

“Sure it matters. The more of em’ gates are around the more re-in-force-mints the bad guys get. Take a gate out and you take a step toward wipin’ em’ all out. Cause that’s what you got to do, Trev. You got to wipe em’ all out.”

“That’s it? Just shoot, kill, and blow things up?”

“Eureka! I think he’s got it! What did it used to say on that T-shirt? Oh yeah, ‘kill em’ all and let God sort em’ out.’ That’s your motto, Trevor. And you know what? You got it in you.”

“You really think so?”

“Before this is over, Trevor, you’re gunna realize one important thing ‘bout yourself: your soul was damned before you was born.”

Destruction

Trevor guided the ‘Eagle’ northward with, thanks to Omar, better-fitting pilot goggles.

Outside the ship, thick flurries rode the air: not quite yet a storm.

Nina sat in the co-pilot’s seat but Trevor remained the only one who knew how to fly the alien craft. That meant three perfectly good flying machines sat unused in Wilkes-Barre.

Danny Washburn, Dante Jones and ten ‘volunteers’—including a few from Major Prescott’s troop—filled the passenger compartment. Eight K9s rounded out the advanced team.

A ground convoy led by Stonewall transported more vehicles, people, and armaments to the battle but they would not arrive until morning.

In the meantime, Trevor’s group would scout the area, assess the gateway, and formulate a plan to destroy it. That’s why Trevor picked Danny Washburn to come along; his career with ATF meant he had experience with things that went BANG.

The ship pushed through a veil of white. Below, the deep woods and hills of the Endless Mountains rolled north turning whiter and whiter the further they travelled.

The Eagle crossed the New York border on December 15th en route to the campus of SUNY Binghamton situated off the Vestal Parkway south of that city.

During the first part of the flight, Trevor followed Interstate 81. After crossing the state line, he relied on a compass Omar super-glued to the control panel, one of several modifications to the alien craft including sport bucket seats pulled from a BMW.

Most important, Omar had rigged two energy weapons derived from the Redcoats’ rifles on a swivel beneath the front landing pods giving the Eagles talons.

Around noon, they caught sight of their destination.

The snow-loaded clouds could not hide the atmospheric disturbance on the horizon: flashing lights, some similar to the flicker of lightning, others more balls of energy catapulted away from the gate into the distance.

Trevor landed on a field surrounded by a running track on the northeast side of campus.

The buildings of the State University of New York at Binghamton stood in clusters separated by parking lots, access roads, and strips of trees made bare by winter. Fire, explosions or general ransacking had damaged many of those buildings.

They entered Hunter Hall on the south side of campus and established a temporary command post. Trevor and Danny went to a dorm room on the top floor and pointed binoculars at the ten-story tall abomination sitting in a vacant parking lot six hundred yards away.

“Jesus,” Danny muttered without his usual good humor. “Just the sight of that thing makes my skin crawl.”

The Grenadiers in the room seemed to agree; they fidgeted nervously and did something Trevor’s dogs rarely did: whimpered.

Nina, wearing a leather jacket over black BDUs, strode in. Behind her came the other three members of her recon team including Dante who wore a hodgepodge of winter gear.

She said, “I don’t get it. There’s some pretty nasty stuff up by the gateway, but between here and there not much. I’m just saying, the scariest thing we saw in any of these buildings were some rats and a raccoon.”

Trevor lowered the binoculars but kept his eyes focused on the distant sphere. A ball of energy shot away and disappeared into the steady drizzle of white puffs.

Dante suggested, “Man, it’s like it’s just throwing monsters into our world.”

One of Nina’s other team members—a short but strong fellow with a scavenged parka over green army BDUs—added his thoughts: “Maybe the area around here is under its range. Sort of like an artillery piece has a minimum distance based on the firing arc.”

Trevor tried to remember the man’s name.

Rhodes. Yes. That’s it. Rhodes.

He looked over the second soldier who had accompanied Nina: A big guy—so big he could have been a professional wrestler instead of a professional soldier—named Casey.

Nina continued, “Whatever the case, it’s sitting over there on parking lot X.”

Trevor saw something on Nina’s face, an expression akin to puzzlement; or maybe she was getting sick. In fact, her entire recon team shared the same look: brows crinkled, noses twitching and vacant eyes.

“What? What is it?”

Nina answered, “It makes a noise. A thumping.”

“No, no,” Rhodes presented a different take. “Like a whining. But really low.”

Dante said, “It wasn’t like you hear it with your ears, but like it’s inside your head. Gave me the creeps, Trev.”

Washburn chided, “Take off the skirt, Nancy.”

Dante responded with his middle finger.

Trevor raised binoculars and faced the 10-story tall gateway again.

A strange texture covered the sphere, one mimicking frosted glass. A brownish bark-like material that appeared to have sprouted from the ground framed the orb and held it in place. That globe rippled every so often, as if it had a liquid surface yet the skin appeared solid.

Inside that sphere, movement. A ball of something like worms the size of oil pipes, spinning lines and shapes at the core. Still, all the time, flashes of lightning and bolts of energy flying away toward unseen destinations: a new horror airmailed to Earth.

Nina’s voice grabbed his attention: “That’s not all. Look at this.”

Rhodes handed Trevor a digital camera.

“There are things guarding it,” Nina explained as Trevor cycled through images.

“Two of them,” Dante said. “Probably the ugliest damn things I’ve ever seen.”

They were big and round; the size and shape of wrecking balls. Fibers sprouted from their bodies and waved madly like Medusa’s hair. They were covered with oval eyes and gaping mouths seemingly placed randomly around their bodies.

Rhodes hacked to hold back nausea as he told Trevor, “They leave, sort of, a pus behind. Like snail tracks when they roll around.”

Trevor crinkled his nose and asked, “Danny, what do you think?”

“I think we stick to the original idea. There’s plenty of farm country around here. We can find what we need. I’m sure there’s an abandoned 18-wheeler around here somewhere, too.”

“Okay then,” Trevor agreed. “We go with the whole big boom idea.”

“Super-genius,” Casey—the big soldier—imitated the Coyote from Roadrunner fame. “Wile E. Coyote, Suupppeerr Genius. I think I like the sound of that.”

*

The advanced team spent the night in Hunter and Cascade residence halls overlooking the campus’ main access road. They expected the ground convoy in the morning.

Trevor, Danny Washburn, and Nina shared an upstairs corner room with Odin and Tyr. The two men kept watch while Nina curled under a blanket and fell asleep.

The constant flashes from the gateway sparked flickers behind the steady stream of falling snow flurries; the only light on an otherwise black night. As hypnotizing as those flashes were, Trevor’s eyes drifted to the sleeping Nina.

In the old world, he often wondered why Ashley Trump cared for him. She felt like a gift for which he was not worthy.

As he watched Nina sleep, he appreciated the fortune in meeting her but he did not feel unworthy. To him, she served as an anchor to his humanity. In her arms, he found parts of his old self; parts he thought buried under the weight of responsibility. With her, he gained a purpose beyond the great cause: something precious to Trevor Stone the man.

Yet despite his love for her, he knew he could not limit Nina’s risk in the battles ahead. Not only because she was one of mankind’s best warriors, but because he had to let her be who she was. He owed that to her no matter how much the fear of losing her scared him.

Danny Washburn, sitting on the floor against the outside wall, broke Trevor’s thoughts.

“You really love this girl, don’t you?”

It did not embarrass Trevor to admit his feelings. “Yeah. I do.”

“That’s great. You deserve it. Before, the two of you were all doom and gloom and ‘oh-my-god it’s the end of the world.’ Now you’re not nearly as much an asshole.”

“Danny, it kind of is the end of the world.”

“It’s the end of the world when we give up. Look at how we did against everything we’ve faced so far. Could of packed it in, instead we fought and what happened? We won.”

Trevor asked, “So what do you think all of this is about?”

Danny considered his words for a moment—a rarity for him—and then shared, “At first I figured this was all just, you know, a big invasion like Independence Day. After all I’ve seen I’m starting to figure we don’t know why it’s happening. Maybe we’re stuck in the middle, like ants on the canvass of a boxing ring. Or maybe we haven’t seen all the pieces.”

A tease of a memory danced across Trevor’s mind. A memory from his dark nightmare in the clutches of The Order.

Something…

Danny went on, “Maybe if we survive long enough we’ll we find out. But damn, I look at this gate thing and I know there are some higher pay grades running this show.”

Trevor thought about the Old Man.

What is his pay grade?

Danny said to Trevor, “Hey, curl up next to your honey and forget about this for a bit. Don’t worry, ole’ Danny’s here. I’ll keep a sharp eye out.”

Trevor hesitated.

“Go on, I gotchya covered.”

Stone followed his friend’s advice. He rested his carbine on a tabletop, grabbed another blanket, and rolled next to Nina. He slipped his arm over her shoulder and even though she slept, she wiggled closer.

Trevor listened to the gentle rhythm of her breathing. The sound calmed his nerves, put his heart at ease, and led him off into a quiet slumber.

*

The convoy arrived mid morning. Stonewall brought a heap of firepower in the fifty-caliber machine guns atop Humvees as well as fifteen armed fighters: a mixture of professional soldiers and post-apocalyptic draftees outfitted in an eclectic collection of uniforms but all with sturdy boots and gloves.

First, they created hard points on the fringe of campus to control access to the area. After, Trevor flew Washburn to the countryside in search of farm supply centers. Ames (the older brunette with fiery eyes) and the young man named ‘Bird’ went off to find an 18-wheeler. Bird assured he knew how to get one started without a key. No one asked.

Trevor and Danny prepared a simple plan: blast the gateway to smithereens with an ammonium nitrate bomb delivered in a truck. To get that close they would need to distract the gateway’s guardians, a job for which Nina seemed well suited. Stonewall would command a reserve force while Trevor and Dante coordinated from a rooftop.

By nightfall, they gathered all the supplies and prepared for an assault in the morning. However, night brought a heavy snowstorm. After much consideration and consultation, Trevor decided to go ahead with the attack.

Before dawn—while the snow raged—Trevor parted ways with Nina and the other five members of “Alpha” team. They drove south in Humvees off campus, then west, then back onto campus on the far side of the target area. There they waited in Palisades dormitory, practically in the shadow of the gateway separated only by a patch of brush and woodland.

Dawn shined on a cold day. Nearly a foot of fresh, powdery snow had fallen and more continued to drift to Earth.

Danny Washburn and Bird piled into the cab of a ROADWAY rig while a support team followed their truck in a Cadillac Escalade. Trevor moved to a good observation point on the roof of Cleveland Hall with Dante and Tyr at his side. The remaining K9s provided security on the flanks of the assault. Stonewall and his relief force of eight men with snowmobiles waited in reserve underneath Trevor’s observation point, using the Winnebago as their command post.

At 10 a.m. on December 17th, the first known human counter attack on a dimensional gateway began.

*

“Alpha team, go,” Trevor radioed.

Nina, Ames, and Casey moved, on foot, through the wooded area to Parking Lot X.

Despite the falling snow, the gateway continued to dispatch bright pulses into the low gray clouds, delivering more miseries to a planet already besieged by chaos.

The air around the abomination felt charged with unearthly electricity. The gateway’s sound added to its eerie ambiance; a constant hum, as if a child pounded a cord on an out-of-tune piano. The creatures inside the sphere wiggled and squirmed behind the opaque ball that hid their true features but conjured an image of maggot-infested meat.

Nina struggled with the sight and sounds of the gateway as some natural instinct urged her to retreat. She shook her head fast in an effort to subdue that instinct. A flutter of snow tumbled from her knit cap.

With new determination, she waved her arm forward. Alpha team engaged the two bloated, massive balls of vileness standing guard outside the hideous monument…

…Trevor watched as muzzle flashes announced the commencement of stage one. He worked the transmitter on his radio.

“Bravo team…punch it!”…

…Bird grinned as he drove the tractor-trailer. Washburn shared the cab and wore a headset radio. He spoke into the microphone, “Roger that. We’re a go.”

The rig started its attack run, passing Hunter Hall. The piled snow grabbed at its 18-wheels causing starts, stops, and slips but they moved forward nonetheless.

“Yeah baby!” Bird hollered. “Here comes the friggin’ mailman with a special god damn delivery for all you mothers!”

Washburn howled, “Wooohooo!”

The truck gained speed as it entered Lot X. The massive gateway stood at the far end.

Washburn gazed at the hideous structure, the sight of which sapped his enthusiasm for the mission. He radioed, “This is bravo. We’re making our run…”

…The two big balls of puss guarding the gateway rolled toward Nina’s assault team as fire from M4 carbines hit against their thick hides, causing no harm. The creatures wobbled over the powdery snow with their eyes searching and mouths working mindlessly as they fell for the ruse and pursued. Ames lobbed a hand grenade that exploded in a splash of dirty snow but barely slowed the creatures.

“C’mon, fall back,” Nina ordered according to plan.

The monstrosities followed the humans into the wooded area…

…Trevor watched from his position as the demon balls chased Nina, the sight of which filled his belly with unease despite being a part of the plan.

“Here comes the truck,” Dante pointed.

With its chase car following behind, the 18-wheeler rumbled toward its goal with a hearty pull on the horn that carried across campus…

… Nina, Ames, and Casey led the rolling balls of puss to the open ground between the wooded area and Pallisades Hall and straight at two 50 caliber machine guns atop idling Humvees, one of which operated by Rhodes.

As the monsters rolled into the kill zone, the heavy caliber weapons spat rounds at a furious pace. The fiends hissed. Vapors shot from holes punched through their sick bodies as the creatures disintegrated into chunks creating a horrid smell of rot.

The machine gun fire ceased, leaving both monsters broken into smaller pieces. More specifically, each ball had been broken into four equal pieces.

Nina stopped wiping snow from her pants and said aloud, “How is that possible?”

Those eight balls of puss vibrated and stirred. Their edges smoothed; eyes and tendrils poked forth, grinning mouths worked open. Eight rolling balls of disgusting monstrosity bore down on Alpha team.

“Open fire!” Nina bolted for the flamethrower as the machine guns blazed again.

Ames pulled another grenade. Before she could throw it, two of the creatures grasped her with tentacles and greedily pulled in opposite directions. Her mouth strained to scream but could not find any voice. Casey charged in with his M16 blasting. At close range, the bullets did damage but not enough to stop them from…from pulling her in two.

Each monster-ball enveloped a half of her body and gulped it down with multiple mouths. Casey bid a hasty retreat…

…The gateway—its guards distracted—loomed above the ROADWAY trailer as Bird hit the brakes. The truck jackknifed and skidded to a stop. As it did, the gate shuttered and vibrated. A howling noise—an alarm—erupted from its core. The flashes of lightning it so often sent into the air flashed at its base.

Something began to come through…something very big…

…Trevor and Dante watched in horror. A massive image formed in front of the Gateway next to the explosive-laden truck. A vague disturbance in the air grew into a more distinct outline as falling snow swirled and fled from the burgeoning form.

It became a shadow. A building-sized shadow…

…Washburn and Bird jumped from the cab of the truck and gaped in awe at the massive hulk fading into existence.

Washburn heard Trevor over the headset: “Get out of there, Danny!”

The former ATF agent grabbed Bird by the collar and hauled him to the waiting Escalade. In moments, a massive explosion would engulf the area.

Glowing red eyes materialized ten stories in the air behind a veil of blustery, falling snow; glowing red eyes conjured from some hellish inferno of the universe…

…The rollers approached the Humvees; the fifty-caliber shots served merely as an annoyance.

Nina lunged forward with the flamethrower, sending a stream of fire into two of the creatures. That fire turned snow into water almost instantaneously but the monsters did not stop.

Casey brandished one of the Redcoats’ energy rifles. He let it charge as long as he dared and fired. The blast broke off a chunk of flesh from one of the round beasts and sent it tumbling across the snow like a billiards ball smacked by the cue. That blasted chunk smoothed its edges, grew tendrils and eyes and a mouth, then spun forward.

Alpha team could not stop the rolling things, but they did stop.

The alarm from the gateway echoed across the snow-filled air. The rolling monsters reversed direction and raced back to their guard posts. The humans of Alpha team watched them go with great relief. Everything they had thrown at the creatures had been ineffective. Nina realized in a huff of despair that they still had much to learn about their enemies.

More lessons were forthcoming…

…Its skin came into the world…a scaly, tinny skin that could have been organic or could have been built in some horrid workshop. Its legs—two of them—like towers. Its body, clothed or natural skin was unclear but it did not matter for its scales appeared as solid as a Titan’s armor. Goat-like horns wrapped its head on either side of raging red eyes. Its arms; it stood upright but instead of hands it sported cloven hooves.

Certainly, this monster served as the root of all satanic visions. Had the ancient Greeks seen this beast? Or the Romans? The Minoans? Truly a horror to inspire poets to sing verses of Hell and damnation.

It roared as it came into this reality and the ground trembled.

Trevor watched as the Cadillac swerved to flee. The creature that inspired dreams of Lucifer kicked the puny vehicle, flipping it across the snow.

Trevor heard Washburn’s grunts and exhales via the open radio as the car cascaded end over end before resting against an abandoned minivan.

Trevor pleaded as a knot of fear grew his stomach, “Danny! Get the hell out of there!”

“Argh…workin’ on it, Trev.”

Stone realized Danny and his escape team had probably rolled out of the blast radius, but that might be the least of their worries. The giant demon stepped forward. The heavy step shook the world.

Washburn, Bird, and two others scrambled from the battered SUV.

Bird did not make it another step. The demon-thing’s cloven arms slammed down and pulverized the insect.

The other three stumbled off through snow nearly knee-deep.

“Christ, run, Danny, run.”

The 18-wheeler erupted in a rolling burst of fire and concussion, blowing a wall of white in all directions. The explosion forced Trevor and Dante to cover behind the rim of the roof. The shock wave blew as if a hurricane. The building beneath wobbled and threatened collapse. Waves of snow and dirt and debris carried overhead in a gale of destruction filling the air with a burning smell, a blast of heat, and a cry of destruction.

Trevor’s ears crackled then rang; he felt oxygen sucked from his lungs.

The sound of the blast echoed into the distance, the tremble and shake slowed then stopped, but the burning smell lingered and a terrible wail grew from soft to loud.

Dante and Trevor stood.

The gateway had evaporated. In its place spun a screeching, screaming vortex. The squirming nest of worm-things—fat and white and covered in fibers—floated above that whirlpool of reality.

At the eye of that vortex bubbled a ball of red, maybe fire. One by one those vulgar worms dropped into that ball of red and disappeared through the portal.

The vortex expanded, growing larger and louder as it widened across the parking lot. Trevor and Dante clamped hands over ears to chase away the forlorn wail. The snow-covered concrete, the cars, the light posts; all warped then stretched then disappeared down that well to whatever place had sent the nightmares.

The vortex enveloped the rolling puss creatures. The vortex sucked down the towering demon. The creature bellowed and raged as its glowing eyes sunk from view.

The blast had knocked Washburn and his team to the ground. They slowly staggered to their feet but were even slower to recognize the encroaching danger.

Trevor gathered his senses and screamed as loud as he could into his radio.

“Danny! Danny, run!”

Too late.

The expanding vortex enveloped Washburn and his team. Trevor heard Danny’s confused voice over the radio, barely audible beneath the moaning, crying maelstrom.

“Wh-what? What is this?”

Stone watched his friend warp and stretch…

“What is this? Oh God, Trevor! Help us!”

…and disappear into Hell….

“What is this place? It hurts! TREVOR! HELP US FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! YOU CAN’T LEAVE US! TREVOR! HELP ME! HELP ME! WHAT ARE THESE THINGS? GET OFF OF ME! GET OFF! OH GOD OHGODOHGOD…”

The vortex collapsed and disappeared, its shriek silenced. The radio frequency cut.

The cold snow of a December afternoon fell fast so as to fill the wide round crater where a part of the Earth had once been.

*

Trevor sat alone in the dark on the top floor of Hunter hall.

Outside, the storm had stopped shortly after dusk leaving behind a tranquil, snow-covered campus with drifts pushed high against walls. A first-quarter moon glowed above and white grains of snowy powder gusted in and out of the moonbeams while the wind whispered amongst the dead buildings. The temperature had dropped dramatically with the setting sun. A cold, dry air hovered overhead.

Several hours past since Danny Washburn and his men were dragged off into some other dimension. Yet despite the demolition team’s grisly fate, Stone’s surviving soldiers considered the mission a success.

Of course, they were right. Certainly the Old Man would agree. A small price to pay for walking the path.

Trevor closed his eyes.

Help us for Christ’s sake! You can’t leave us!

He pounded a fist into his forehead, leaned against the corner of the room, and slumped to the floor. He purposely ignored the blanket there, shunning the warmth it offered as if he did not deserve such comforts.

He heard her footsteps in the hallway. He did not want to see her. He did not want to be seen by her.

Nina entered the room with a flashlight in hand. She spotted him huddled in the corner exhaling short puffs of frosty breath.

“Trevor? You okay?”

He did not respond.

She walked to him.

They had not spoken since the end of the attack. She had been busy organizing everyone for the night. They would start the return trip in the morning.

Nina knelt next to him. She saw him shiver.

“You getting sick?”

She placed a hand to his forehead. He felt cold.

Nina realized she had seen him like this once before: the time he had cried next to the body of Sheila Evans.

She turned off the flashlight, sat on the floor next to him, and whispered in the dark: “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes it is,” he insisted in a monotone voice. “I should have known better. I should have known that it wouldn’t be that easy. I should have spent more time watching and waiting. Or maybe…maybe I should have sent Stonewall’s men to get Danny. Why didn’t I do that? I wasn’t thinking!”

“Listen, the longer we would have waited the more chance it would have spotted us or that other hostiles would have stumbled on us. As for Stonewall, from what I heard his men couldn’t have done anything. They would have been killed, too. It was a tough call. That’s what leaders do. They make the tough calls.”

His voice wavered, “Leader? The same leader that had us raid the airport and pull all of our manpower off the estate. That went great, too. This leader just sent a bunch of people he knew to something worse than dying.”

He clenched his teeth. “I…could…hear him…on the radio…crying for help…. begging for me to do something…anything!”

Nina searched for words.

“You have to make those decisions. You can’t possibly know everything that’s going to happen. I’m just saying that you can’t be angry at yourself because of this.”

“Angry? You think I’m angry? Where’s your flashlight? Shine it on me! Look at the great leader! See who I am, Nina. See the fraud! See the man behind the curtain! See him curled up in a ball crying like a two year old and wishing he could go crawl under his pillow and wake up from this damn nightmare.”

He shivered again. She grabbed the blanket and tried to place it around his shoulders. He pushed it away.

“I…am tired of this game! I don’t want to be the leader anymore. I don’t want to have peoples’ lives depending on what I say. I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to go hide and cry myself to sleep. I don’t want to be strong and sure and none of that shit ANYMORE!”

Nina said nothing. What could she say?

“There’s your great leader, Nina. I’m not the man you think I am. I’m Richard Stone. I sell Chevrolets. I live at home with my parents. I don’t know who this Trevor guy is. I don’t think I like him very much.”

Nina forced an arm around him. He tried to pull free but she would not let go. She tugged him close. He started to push free again but instead began to sob.

“Let it out…you can…you can let it all out with me. You can try and chase me away but I’m not going away.”

He buried his face in her lap.

Nina stroked his head and told her lover, “I know Trevor Stone. He’s got a tough job but he does the best he can; better than any one else could do. I know it used to be a lonely job but that’s not true anymore. Trevor Stone is never alone as long as I’m here. As for this Richard Stone guy, I’ve seen him from time to time. And you know what? I love him, too. So I don’t care who is here next to me, Trevor or Richard. You don’t have to hide from me. But when you need me to, I’ll hide with you…in the dark.”

Without thought, without planning, Nina found that, yes, she could give comfort to another human being. She could do more than kill; she could deliver mercy, too.

She felt complete.

Richard Stone cried for the loss of his life. He cried for the horrors he had seen over the months. He cried for the soul of Danny Washburn.

And he cried most of all because he knew when sunrise came, Trevor would be back.

Outside the windows, lazy flakes of snow rode the cold December wind.

Sweet Dreams

The return trip from Binghamton should have lasted a few hours but the knee-deep blanket of white covering the landscape turned the trip into a journey of three days.

Snowdrifts devoured the roads, eliminating the difference between lane and shoulder, sidewalk and front yard. Road signs pointed to nothingness. With every tree, wrecked car, road, and parking lot covered in snow, navigation became an exercise in frustration. Travel at night in such conditions was impossible.

The convoy inched along during the day. Drainage ditches swallowed vehicles; ice patches sent others careening into trees and guardrails. One rolled Humvee resulted in Rhodes breaking his collarbone.

However, several survivors joined their ranks during the trip, including a family of four living in a camper at a highway rest stop.

In the end, the convoy found its way home, arriving at the estate exhausted, hungry, suffering from all manner of wounds and sickness, and generally resembling more a defeated army than victorious heroes.

Trevor Stone labeled the mission a success and proclaimed that those lost would never be forgotten. This held particularly true for him; Danny’s screams became a part of his soul.

Even as they grieved for missing friends, the survivors realized the “Holiday Season” loomed. Evan Godfrey proposed a gala New Year’s Eve Ball. Preparations for the party became the talk of the estate.

The Rheimmers trucked in a seven-foot blue spruce for the mansion’s Christmas tree.

Everyone either found or made an ornament including paper stars cut by children and sparkling jewelry. However, Shep set the new standard for ornaments when he placed Sal Corso’s cap on the tree.

Jon Brewer searched Washburn’s place and found his ATF badge left in a drawer: it made a nice silver ornament.

Bear Ross scavenged on a Maryland Terrapins beverage coaster. He punched a hole in it and placed it on the tree in memory of Frank Dorrance.

A porcelain bald eagle from Cassy Simms in memory of Bird; a simple placard with the word “Pop”; still more trinkets for Gruder and Tucker, Sanchez and Jennie.

Trevor placed a tiara at the top of the tree for Sheila Evans: the first refugee he brought to the estate and one of the first lost.

On Christmas Eve, the Brewers gathered their closest friends and, standing in front of the sparkling tree, announced Lori was pregnant.

Temperatures dropped and stayed in single digits calling for firewood gathering parties and fast repairs to generators lest homes freeze. Even Godfrey and Omar Nehru worked together to prioritize and solve each problem.

Volunteers cleaned an old dance and bingo hall a half mile from the estate. Omar promised generators to run lights and a sound system as well as portable heaters.

Kristy Kaufman searched the survivor records for musicians and mustered a band.

Four-wheel drive vehicles burned gas ferrying people across the deep snow to the Shavertown shopping centers in search of formal wear. Trevor did not object to the use of the fuel because preparing for the gala ball kept spirits high despite the miserable cold.

Trevor himself found a tuxedo but Nina expressed little interest. That did not surprise him. There were some things up Nina’s alley, and some things that were not.

The Grenadiers and a few human volunteers—including Major Prescott—handled security that New Years Eve so the others could dance and drink.

*

The men wore everything from three-piece suits to slacks and sweaters. It differed from the old days in that no one felt out of place; no one competed. The fancier the suit merely meant the luckier the scavenger hunt. The same held true for the women dressed in outfits ranging from gorgeous gowns to slacks.

Trevor waded through the crowd to the table Jon captured next to the bar. Dante and Shepherd waited there with the Brewers. Lori wore a blue dress left over from someone’s prom.

Trevor elegantly kissed her hand saying, “You look dashing, my dear.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Lori drawled as soft music and chatter carried through the room.

“Where’s Nina?” Shep asked as he sipped from a bottle of beer.

“She’ll be over after guard duty.”

Shepherd snickered, “She probably volunteered for guard duty. Late to get here, first to leave, I reckon.”

“Not quite the social butterfly, huh?” Dante grunted.

“Hey, too each their own,” Lori defended her friend.

“So, Trevor,” Shep changed the subject as they stood in a circle with drinks in hand. “How’s Omar doing with that matter-maker thingy we found a while ago?”

Brewer sniped, “Just ask Omar, he’ll give you an ear full.”

“It’s coming along, slowly,” Trevor said. “Lots of limits to it. Can’t quite turn a brick into a gun or anything like that. But basic stuff. Hey, iron into gold. It can do that just fine.”

Dante suggested, “Basic elements, huh?”

“Yeah, something like that. So far it looks like the biggest contribution that thing is going make in the short term is making more of that powder for the Redcoat guns and artillery. He’s been able to duplicate that stuff using things like sand. But it’s slow going.”

Shepherd said, “Everything is slow going with this weather. People have got to find a way to keep busy.”

“I know,” Trevor agreed. “Prescott and some of his guys are setting up little boot camps for people. Basic training and all that.”

Lori chuckled and said, “Turning bankers and teachers into soldiers and sharpshooters? That should be interesting.”

“Why not?” Her husband sounded offended by her skepticism. “Anyone who survived this long is a fighter. With all that’s ahead of us, it makes sense to start some formal training.”

Trevor told them, “We need the manpower, especially for the next few months. Let’s hope this snow keeps bad things away; the K9 numbers are dangerously low. By spring there should be hundreds of adults at fighting age but right now the ranks are thin.”

Jon said, “Wow,” but it had nothing to do with K9s: Something caught his eye.

The piano played classical background music while the crowd of people—nearly fifty—stood in groups ringing the dance floor drinking, eating, and talking.

On the far side of the room beyond the crowd stood Nina, scanning for her group. She wore a stunning black dress with stockings to match. Shiny diamond studs glinted in her ears and—most shocking of all— her hair laid loose: no ponytail.

Trevor could not pull his eyes from her.

So natural. Not the least bit ostentatious. Well-toned muscles; strong calves; the gentle curls of blond hair on soft shoulders; the slight arch of her back; not on gaudy display but presented without interference, without the clutter of battle suits or, for that matter, no distracting phony glitz.

Nina saw her friends staring at her with a mixture of awe and delight.

She smiled, a little. Perhaps embarrassed. But not much.

The piano played.

Nina walked with humble grace across the hall on short heels. She captured the eyes of everyone in the room. Even the piano player stumbled.

Trevor met her half way.

She spoke before he could: “If you’re going to say anything, it had better be very charming.”

He hesitated. He could not possibly be as charming as this vision warranted.

“You always surprise me, don’t you?”

He put his hands on her bare shoulders.

Trevor said, “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

Nina answered honestly, “I did it for me.”

His mouth opened but he could not find words. She smiled at his bewilderment.

“Aren’t you going to tell me how I look?”

He licked his lips and admitted, “I can’t. I’m not a poet.”

She grinned and leaned in. He kissed her forehead.

Trevor escorted her to the others and they hugged and laughed. Jon brought more drinks from the bar. The band—brass, drums, and guitar—really got going.

Trevor tried all night to get a good dance with his woman, but each time someone cut in.

First Dante took Nina for a dip. Jon tried to teach her a polka and, of course, Jerry Shepherd demanded a dance.

Jon brought along a digital video recorder. He captured the group as they gathered around the table late that night after many dances and many more drinks.

Dante stumbled, “Hap—happy…what is it?…oh yeah, happy New Year!”

“And now to our love birds…” Brewer led as he brought the focus on Nina and Trevor.

“Damned straight!” Trevor exclaimed boisterously. Or maybe it was the vodka. “I love this woman!”

“Oh stop, you’re embarrassing me,” Nina insisted as he slung an arm around her beautiful frame and pulled her close.

Trevor spoke louder; “I love this woman. Completely. With everything I am.”

“Get a room!” Lori Brewer’s off camera voice shot.

“Besides,” Trevor continued. “You’re cute when you blush.”

Nina—or maybe it was the wine—forgot her embarrassment. She let him pull her in, placed a hand on his cheek, and affirmed to him—to all of them: “I love you, too. I always will.”

They hammed for the camera with a big kiss and a cheek-to-cheek grin.

Shepherd snapped a still photo of Nina, Trevor, Lori, Jon, and Dante standing arm to arm: the new generation of leaders and the hope of mankind’s future, sloshed at a New Year’s Eve party.

Later, Trevor found that private dance with his love.

She whispered, “I want to stay at the mansion tonight.”

“Sure. Any particular reason?”

“Because I want to feel like a princess for a little while longer…”

…Trevor carried a bottle of wine and two glasses as he followed her into the deserted Command Center. She stood at the balcony doors gazing at the dark winter night.

Trevor placed the bottle and glasses on the desktop with a gentle ting, removed his tuxedo jacket, wrapped it over her bare shoulders, and they stepped out to the balcony.

The moon hovered somewhere between full and third quarter. Moonbeams danced over churning, icy waves. The evergreen trees on the hillsides wore coats of surreal white frosting. The entire scene seemed frozen; a painted picture still and peaceful. The vision offered an illusion that all might be right with the world.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it, Trevor?”

He hugged her.

“Yes. Everything looks beautiful tonight.”

She placed her head against his shoulder and said, “Sometimes it’s hard to believe that it’s such a dangerous, new world.”

“And I give it to you.”

“Hmmm, what a nice thought.”

He turned her and found those blue eyes.

“It is what we make it. That’s what we’re doing now, you know; making the world over.”

She drew a serious curl in her brow.

“There’s something you need to know, Trevor Stone.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I love you. I mean, for real.” She quickly placed a hand over her mouth to suppress a hiccup. “Oh, and I’m a little tipsy, too.”

He laughed. “Me too.”

“You’re tipsy, too?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “And I love you, too. For real.”

They kissed in front of the tapestry of a moonlit winter night.

*

The sweet dreams of New Year faded and the reality of winter set in.

January and February were tough. The freeze-dried food stocks dwindled causing the farms to slaughter more animals and K9s to hunt wild game.

In January, the first flu bug swept through. Trevor spent three days in bed with a fever. Nina managed to suffer only sniffles. A middle-aged resident died, infuriating Johnny who felt that with better medical facilities the man would not have succumbed.

A second bug hit stomachs. Evan Godfrey bravely led an expedition to ransack drug stores for medications that helped ease the suffering.

In February came a brief thaw followed by an arctic blast and snow squalls.

Ice fishing and book swapping became popular but they were not the number one pass time. Trevor felt certain that soon Lori would not be the only one pregnant. He also noted Dante and Kristy Kaufman spending time together.

In early April, spring arrived in earnest with the first thunderstorm. A few weeks later, the geese returned. Trevor resumed long-range patrols that month, resulting in the discovery of more survivors alive in conditions ranging from subsistence to relative luxury, yet they all eagerly joined the estate and willingly accepted the hierarchy.

They returned to Wilkes-Barre in force, and this time did not leave. Stone created an operations center in the Luzerne County Courthouse, basing a rapid response force there.

Much to Johnny’s delight, they cleared General Hospital. Despite a well-looted pharmacy, the hospital remained in surprisingly good condition. The doctor-turned-Reverend established a training program for nurses and medics.

The armory in Kingston yielded a gold mine of ordnance, fuel, vehicles, and small arms while a Marine tactical air support wing based north of Kingston held spare parts for the helicopters and aviation fuel.

Police stations offered treasure troves of ammunition, ballistic armor, and weapons. Gun shops, hardware stores, and sporting goods outlets yielded additional bounty.

Families re-occupied neighborhoods while barter centers and supply depots opened in vacant shopping centers. A farmers market of sorts sprung to life on Public Square.

Wilkes-Barre became, in humble ways, a city again. A human city patrolled by Grenadiers sniffing out danger.

Trevor painted the commandeered Redcoat shuttles he nicknamed ‘Eagles’ white and then trained people to fly them, starting with three experienced pilots from Prescott’s group. Nina wanted to learn but Trevor kept her focused on training new recruits and conducting patrols with the promise that her chance would come.

Meanwhile, Omar improved the Eagle air ships by installing improved radar and communications gear.

Furthermore, technicians worked long hours to bring an old coal-fired electricity plant on line intermittently to power Wilkes-Barre and its suburbs. The legacy of mining in the valley had left behind massive anthracite piles, more than enough to keep the plant running for months.

All the while refugees poured in.

The Poconos—to the east and southeast of Wilkes-Barre—proved fertile ground for finding intact families. In that rural region, it had been possible to hunt enough game to survive while a plethora of streams provided clean drinking water as well as fish.

On May 15, Lori Brewer announced that five hundred people had registered as part of the greater “estate”. Evan Godfrey might have known each of them by name.

While humanity’s comeback continued for the survivors, the comeback of humanity in both Trevor and Nina blossomed as well.

He found the other bookend to his life. She could finish his sentences and he could do the same for her. They changed from new love to lovers to a couple. One day Trevor paid her what she knew to be the ultimate compliment: not only did he love her, but he liked her.

He liked playing racquetball with her. He enjoyed introducing her to classic movies such as Twelve Angry Men and Forbidden Planet. She taught him how to horseback ride and improved his marksmanship.

Some nights he needed to be something other than a leader. Just as had happened after the destruction of the gateway, Nina could comfort him during his rare times of indecision or guilt or sadness, or even when nightmares of his torture at the The Order invaded his dreams.

Nina needed to drop the front of the tough soldier once in a while. Sometimes she wanted to be a little Princess; sometimes she wanted to fold into his arms and forget about fighting and killing for a while.

He could do that. He was the only person who ever could. Without him, she feared she would become the quiet, icy introvert who could only find purpose in combat.

The first half of the New Year served as the calm eye of the hurricane.

June marked the one-year anniversary since the end of the world. June also brought war and misery.

The powers of Armageddon had noticed them.

The legions were coming.

Trevor had survived. He had begun to fight. Now came time to sacrifice.

Gathering Thunderheads

“Easy does it,” Trevor cautioned.

“This is…this is…,” Nina searched for words. “I mean, it feels like I’m flying. Like it’s me moving through the air.”

She sat in the pilot’s chair wearing oversized navigation goggles. Through them, Nina saw the landscape passing below as if her eyes watched from the front of the captured shuttle.

Dante’s voice over the radio cut the lesson short.

“Eagle One, you copy? This is Home Plate.”

Trevor responded, “We read you. What’s happening?”

“We need you to do an aerial recon.”

“Home Plate, that’s a negative, we’re on a training mission. Dunston and Bragg are up in Two and Three doing patrols. Call them.”

Dante’s voice wavered: “Both Two and Three are doing recons in other areas.”

“Where?”

“Eagle Two is on its way over the mountains and east to Blakeslee. Dunston is to the south below Hazleton.”

Trevor sighed and said, “Okay, where do you need us?”

“Could you head north above Scranton to the Mid-Valley area?”

Trevor realized Dante sought reconnaissance in three different directions.

“Home Plate, what’s going on?”

“Um, Eagle One, I need a follow-up on reports we got from ground scouts.”

Trevor asked, “What are we looking for?”

Silence.

“Dante, for Christ’s sake what did the scouts tell you?”

“Trevor, we have armies come at us. Three of them.”

*

At twelve noon on June 1, Eagle One with Trevor Stone at the controls soared over the northern suburbs of Scranton. Below them, the ground moved like a slowly rolling tide: Red Hand tribesmen swarming south like locusts.

Thousands of them.

*

They landed on one of the newly built pads by the marina on the far side of the lake. Nina and Trevor transferred to a Humvee and drove for the mansion.

“Three armies at once? I don’t buy that as a coincidence. There must have been two thousand of those Red Hands. Probably take—hey, you awake over there?”

Nina’s head rested against the side window with her eyes shut.

Trevor skidded to a stop along the shoulder of the road.

“Nina! Hey, Nina!”

She bolted upright. “What? What’s wrong?”

Trevor’s heart pounded as he told her, “You were out.”

“Oh. Guess I fell asleep.”

She refused to face him; her eyes focused ahead.

He asked, “What is it? Are you feeling okay?”

She redirected, “C’mon, get going. We have to find out what’s going on.”

“Jesus Christ, Nina, has this happened before? Are you fainting?”

“Look, no big deal. I’m just not sleeping well.”

“Bull shit. I sleep next to you. How many times has this happened?”

“Just get us—”

“How many times, damn it!”

She stared at her hands saying, “Three or four times, in the last two weeks…I think.”

“Have you talked to Johnny about this?”

“Listen, maybe I’m not eating right. Just a little lightheadedness. We can talk about it later. I’m just saying we’ve got more important stuff now.”

Trevor glared at her and said, “We’re going to get you checked out.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever, but let’s get moving.”

*

Trevor, his council, the inner circle of military minds, and the pilots returning from reconnaissance missions packed into the Command Center.

Dunston, a slender black man from Prescott’s group with a background in flying med-evac Blackhawks for the Army, relayed what he had seen before fleeing anti-air fire. Trevor listened while his eyes studied the map spread over the desktop.

“They’re humanoid and marching in loose formations. They had some carts or something pulled by animals. Like horse and wagon stuff, except they sure weren’t horses.”

Trevor asked, “Nothing motorized?”

“Couldn’t tell for sure. I didn’t see any air support, either. I did see something that looked like a catapult and that made me think of them as Vikings, but that’s really not right.” The pilot chuckled and explained, “I guess it’s getting harder and harder to come up with new names for everything we run in to.”

“How many?” Brewer asked.

“At least a couple hundred, but they did a good job of staying under cover. I mean, until they popped out and started hitting me with something.”

Trevor called, “Omar, get over to check out what hit Dunston’s Eagle.” Trevor then spoke to the pilot again: “What way are they coming?”

Dunston leaned over the map and traced a line along Interstate 81.

“Heading north in the woods alongside the highway.”

Shep asked Trevor, “And the Red Hands?”

“They’re coming south down Route 11.”

Prescott said, “Maybe these Red Hand guys will fight it out with the Viking things.”

Trevor asked the other recon pilot, “Bragg, what did you see?”

Bragg, another addition from Prescott’s group with experience flying Apaches and now alien air ships, stepped forward. He relayed his information in a firm, no-nonsense voice that matched his firm, no-nonsense appearance.

“Sir, some nasty shit coming our way from the east, Sir.”

“Let’s hear it, soldier.”

“Never saw anything like them, Sir. Some sort of machines. I don’t know if there’s anything inside of em’ or if they’re just…well, I think they’re robots, Sir.”

The information nearly sounded funny, particularly coming from a man who had managed to keep his army crew cut perfectly sculpted even after a year on the run.

“Car-sized, Sir. Like robotic cockroaches or something. Six legs each. Got some sort of machine guns on them. Wouldn’t want to be standing toe to toe with them, Sir.”

Brewer asked, “Any artillery? Heavy weapons? Air cover?”

“No, Sir. I think each of these things packs a good wallop on its own. And the

Grenadiers, well, they can’t take a bite out these things. Sorry, Sir.”

Trevor pinched the bridge of his nose.

Stonewall asked, “Did you ascertain their number?”

“I think seventy-five to one hundred, Sir. They were in the open pretty good but scattered across a wide front. They’re heading right along Route 115. Coming this way, slow but sure.”

Trevor traced his fingers over the map.

Brewer said, “These Viking things and the robots are on a path that’ll bring them together outside the Wyoming Valley Mall where 81 and 115 intersect by the expressway. The Red Hands are coming down along the river.”

Dante hoped, “Maybe they’ll run into each other and start fighting.”

Trevor sighed but it was Nina who said what was on his mind: “Look, they’re not going to fight each other. They’re going to meet up and march right out here; one big happy army.”

Evan Godfrey interrupted, “You don’t know that! They might just pass us by.”

Once again, Nina spoke for Trevor: “They’re coming for us. This isn’t a coincidence.”

Evan moved from the crowd into the limelight of the conversation.

“Yeah, you’d just love that. Another reason to have another war. Can’t we go negotiate with them? We’re talking about intelligent races.”

Trevor replied, “No.”

Nina said, “These things meet up—what?—two days from now then they head out here.”

Shep voiced what they all realized: “Reckon they would just overwhelm us.”

“Dante,” Trevor commanded, “get your scouts out. I need updates on movement and headings and everything. Get them going. Now.”

“Yeah man, no problem.”

Stonewall said, “May I make a suggestion? Some say the battle of Gettysburg was won on the first day.”

Jon Brewer’s knowledge of history forced him to correct, “That was a three day fight.”

Stonewall conceded, “Yes, but on the first day the confederate army’s fate was sealed.”

Brewer followed Stonewall’s thinking: “The Union army occupied the high ground outside of town. The confederates spent the next two days attacking those positions.”

“Indeed,” Stonewall agreed. “History may have recorded a different outcome if General Lee had secured the high ground for the Army of Northern Virginia that day.”

First Trevor, then Brewer, then Shep leaned closer to the map.

Trevor said, “We sure as hell can’t let those armies come together.”

Brewer echoed, “Wow, yeah. That’d be bad.”

“Get those scouts out and the Eagles flying. We need info. Prescott, get me an up to date listing of armaments and munitions. Garrett, put together your best skirmishers.”

Stonewall bowed.

“People, I think things are going to get interesting over the next forty-eight hours; if we have that long. I don’t want those armies converging. I’m going airborne to check some things out and I’m mustering every K9 I can find.”

As the meeting dispersed, Evan said to Trevor, “Let me try negotiating.”

“They’re coming for us. I’d love to send you to negotiate but you’d never come back.”

“Okay then, what is it you want me to do?”

“What do you want to do?”

Evan replied, “I guess I’m going to fight.”

Trevor’s wide eyes and gape revealed his surprise.

Evan muttered, “You think because I don’t agree with you I’m a coward? You don’t know me. Just because I don’t like the idea of fighting for the rest of my life doesn’t mean I won’t stand up when I need to.”

“Okay then. We’ll get you assigned somewhere. In the meantime, round up any transportation, fuel supplies and anything else we might need. Think creative. Who knows what this is going to take.”

Evan Godfrey walked away.

Nina joined Trevor.

“You two making friends?”

“No. Sometimes you pigeonhole someone then you learn that was a mistake. Mark it down; Evan’s not afraid to put it on the line.”

“Good. I’m just saying everyone is going to have to fight.”

“Yeah,” Trevor watched Evan leave the room. “Sooner or later everyone fights for what they believe in.”

*

Trevor told Nina to get an hour’s rest and something to eat while he planned to take an Eagle to analyze the topography to the east and south.

He walked out of the mansion’s front doors with Tyr by his side and stopped.

The white wolf paced frantically just beyond the northern fence.

Trevor, his eyes on the Old Man’s familiar, had one more order to give before he could answer the call from his benefactor. He told Tyr, “Complete assembly. As soon as possible.”

As the dog bolted off in one direction, Trevor went around the fence on the perimeter road to follow the wolf as it hurried off into the woods.

The forest turned the day dark. New leaves waved in a brisk spring wind. The old, dried leaves from last fall covered the ground in dried rot.

The Old Man paced along the rim of a flickering fire and sneered, “’Bout damned time.”

“I got here as fast as I could.”

Trevor tried to sound annoyed at the interruption, but he lost any edge as he saw the expression in the Old Man’s eyes: as he saw the fear—out right fear—there.

The Old Man’s next words changed Trevor Stone’s world forever.

“You can’t be with her.” The man’s wrinkled, crooked hand trembled as he waved it toward Stone. “I didn’t see this thing comin’ but this here is the way it is. Had I known earlier this would of been easier.”

Trevor cocked his head. “Huh? What are you talking about? Does this have something to do with the three armies?”

The Old Man repeated, “You can’t be with her.”

Trevor came to understand the Old Man’s meaning.

“What? Are you talking about Nina? Who I’m with is none of your business.”

The Old Man pumped a shaky fist that appeared more afraid than angry.

“I told you, you walk a path. You can either do what you’re supposed to be doin’ or you fail and things end.”

“Take your riddles somewhere else; I don’t have time for this shit. I have three god damn armies of nasties coming at us.”

“And that don’t mean diddly! You think I don’t know what’s comin’ down the pike? But that don’t mean nothin’ if you don’t listen to me now!”

Trevor shot, “I’m doing everything you told me to do. I’ve fought the fight. I’ve been through a living hell. I’ve been beaten and tortured and felt pain like no man should ever feel. I have nightmares that would give Freddy Krueger the creeps. Sometimes I can still feel those friggin’ bugs crawling in my skin. So I find one little ounce of happiness in this world and you tell me no? Well screw you and all your shit. If you don’t like me with Nina then go find someone else for the job.”

Trevor started to walk off.

“Somethin’ bad gunna happen to her.”

Trevor turned with the devil in his face.

“I don’t know what you are, but I will spend the rest of my life and all my time in Hell getting my vengeance if you hurt her.”

The Old Man placed a hand on his forehead and spoke with a tone of frustration and, perhaps, a touch of pity.

“Oh Trevor, you just ain’t hearin’ me cause you in love. I told you. You walk a path. She ain’t on that path, Trevor. I can see where it goes. She ain’t with you. You don’t have the brainpower to understand what this be all about. You don’t have the mental capacity.”

“What do you have against Nina?”

The Old Man grimaced.

“Damn it! You fool! I didn’t see her comin’. I didn’t know you two were makin’ hay and talking about riding off into the sunset together. Break it off, Trevor. Stop it now whilst there’s still time. If you love her, then you’ll send her packin’ and then maybe she’ll be just fine. But you go tryin’ to take her with you arm and arm like a couple honeymooners then sometin’ gunna stop you. I don’t know what. Sometin’.”

Trevor pointed at him.

“Now you listen to me. I’ve done everything you asked. I survived, I fought, I…”

He caught himself.

“That’s right,” the Old Man grinned in a mean way. “I warned you. Thought it’d be as simple as taking a shot for your buddy, didn’t you? Or maybe givin’ up cable TV was your big sacrifice. Truth is, right now you’d rather die than give her up.”

Again, a hint of compassion slipped into the man’s tone. A hint.

“This ain’t ‘bout you. Never was. You just a link in a chain. You can’t do what you got to do with her ‘round. She’s a good fighter, though. Probably serve you well killin’ and whatnot.”

Trevor walked away.

“You got no choice. End it before sometin’ happens that you’ll blame yourself for!”

Trevor walked faster.

“SHE’S NOT ON THE PATH WITH YOU!”

He ran.

*

Despite his visit with the Old Man, Trevor spent two hours in one of the captured alien shuttles now named “Eagles” scouting the turf between Wilkes-Barre and Hazleton. He found big, rolling, wooded mountains on either side of Interstate 81. Good defensive ground.

During his return flight, he received a radio update from Dante.

“Eagle Three was hit by some kind of small artillery shell. Omar thinks it just sorta skimmed the ship or Dunston would have been blown up.”

Trevor sat in the pilot’s seat, guiding the Eagle toward the lake through big alien navigation goggles. He heard Dante’s words but did not react. Too much clouded his mind.

“Trev? Hey man, you there?”

“Yes.”

“Omar patched it up no problem. As for the other bunch of cyber…robot…roach… whatevers, the scouts say they’re held up at Blakeslee for a bit, kind of a pause. Looks like they’re killin’ anything that moves. Even, shit, like squirrels and stuff.”

Trevor grumbled, “They’ll be coming soon enough.”

“What’s that? I didn’t copy that.”

“Never mind. Go ahead.”

“The Red Hands are at Scranton. They’re camped out by the old Viewmont Mall there and it looks like they’ve sent out hunting parties and shit. Probably hanging out for a while.”

Trevor knew they would be coming, too.

“Okay, Dante. Tell everyone to get together at the mansion. I’ve been thinking a few things over and I’ve got some ideas.”

“Okay man, roger that and all.”

Several minutes later, Trevor parked Eagle One at the marina landing-zone and drove to the estate. As he walked inside the mansion, all eyes fell to him. He knew why, too.

It would be his plan. Sure, Jon and Shep, Nina and Prescott, maybe even Stonewall and Dante would have ideas. In the end, he led and they followed. It rested on his shoulders.

His path to walk.

When Trevor pushed open the doors to the Command Center, he found Jon Brewer and Jerry Shepherd kneeling on the floor over the unconscious body of Nina Forest.

Warning Signs

Trevor examined the map again, trying to focus on the battle plan and not on Nina who was en route to General Hospital after having remained unconscious for five minutes.

He asked Stonewall, “Your brigade ready?”

“Most certainly, Sir. Stonewall’s brigade will ride again.”

Woody Ross, in the corner, let out a quiet ‘hoo-rah’.

“You understand your mission?”

“Cavalry circles. I shall ride rings around the approaching enemy, fill his head with confusion, and make him wonder what spirits haunt his flanks. His progress will be slowed while you prepare the main lines.”

Trevor corrected, “While General Shepherd prepares those lines.” He explained, “You are my Generals. Stonewall, Shep, Prescott and, of course, Jon,” he rested a hand on the latter. Dante stood aside, a step apart from the ‘Generals’. “We have fought together for almost a year. The sad part is, if we win this time it will not be the last battle. But if we lose…”

Prescott said, “Pardon my French but, shoot, I thought I was going to die a long time ago. Everyday from now on in is just icing.”

Trevor pointed to the south of the map.

“Okay, one more time. Stonewall, you guys ride out before dawn and get those Viking-things looking over their shoulder. That gives us three good mountains to use as defensive points. Shepherd, you start laying em’ out.”

Shep said, “Seems to me the bear is going to go over them mountains and he’s going to keep seein’ the same thing. Me.”

“Jon,” Trevor went on. “You’ve got a big nut to crack: the cyber-bot-roach-things… the…shit, just call them the ‘Roachbots.”

Jon spoke for all of them when he said, “Now that name just plain sucks.”

“Best we can do for now. Roachbots it is. Make sure Anita gets a sketch of these things into the hostiles database.”

“What does it matter?” Prescott asked. “We lose, we won’t be needin’ that thing.”

Trevor told him, “No, but maybe the next batch of survivors could use it.”

“Anyway…” Jon steered the conversation forward.

“Anyway,” Trevor echoed. “Jon, you’ll be in a tough spot with these things. You can have two of the Redcoat artillery pieces. I think the Abrams will be yours, too. That means Prescott here will ride shotgun with you.”

Prescott slapped Jon on the back and said, “It’s gunna be fun.”

“Stonewall’s mortar teams will be in the south with you, Shep. As long as Nina is okay, she’ll be in an Apache and so will Bragg.”

Jon asked, “What about you? What weapons you using?”

Instead of explaining, Trevor walked onto the balcony. They followed and listened as he said, “I’ll have the Apaches first. What I really need is ground transportation for my army.”

Below on the front lawn under the fading sun of an early June evening assembled Trevor’s army of Grenadiers: Rotties and Huskies, German Shepherds and Dobermans and even several gigantic Irish Wolfhounds. Nearly three hundred K9s.

“I’m going to lead this army against the Red Hands to the north. We will be outnumbered, but we will fight like the devil. If we get it done the Apaches, me, and the K9s will transfer to other fronts. If Stonewall does his job, then the Vikings will be the last to be engaged. But make no mistake, the Roachbots may be fewer in number but they might be the hardest. Jon, I leave their destruction in your hands. Is your plan ready?”

“Omar has been using that matter-maker thing to crank out Redcoat blasting powder all day. We’ll be ready.”

Dante spoke out of the blue: “The Battle of Five Armies.”

“How’s that?” Shepherd, like the others, did not recognize the reference.

“Oh, c’mon guys,” Dante rolled his eyes. “Tolkien, man. The Hobbit. The big battle was between five different armies. Well that’s what we got here, right? Humans, K9s and three big groups of hostiles. Five armies, right?”

Trevor nodded. It sounded as good a name as any.

“Good luck to you all, gentlemen. If we win, I will see you again soon. If not, let the universe know that humanity went down with a fight.”

*

Trevor and Shepherd walked into the observation area of a CAT scan lab on the first floor of General Hospital. In the interest of conserving energy, the room was lit only by the fluttering screens of computer terminals. Reverend Johnny and a middle-aged spectacled man in a white coat named Dr. Maple waited for them.

“Where is she?”

“She’s resting in a room with Lori right now,” Reverend Johnny answered Trevor. “We’ve thrown every test I could think of at her. Some of the results are still pending, but I think we’ve got a handle on the problem.”

Shep said, “Spell it out, Rev.”

“It’s been there all along. I’ve never seen anything like it. But tears of Jesus it wouldn’t have mattered because I didn’t have this kind of equipment.”

Johnny tapped the image of Nina’s brain displayed on one of the computer screens.

Trevor’s library of knowledge did not bestow him the ability to read x-rays or CAT scans or whatever. Nonetheless, he immediately spied a foreign object attached to Nina’s brain.

Dr. Maple adjusted his eyeglasses and joined the conversation: “Ah, it’s like a film just inside the skull. It appears to have some sort of roots reaching into specific, um, areas of the cerebral cortex.”

Johnny explained, “When I ran a chemical analysis I found that the devil had not been entirely burned at the stake.”

Trevor growled impatiently, “How’s that?”

Shepherd offered an answer: “It’s from The Order. Left over from what they did to her.”

Johnny nodded and said, “I’ve now found how they implanted fake memories. This patch worked in conjunction with the more traditional-looking implant. My sincerest apologies, Mr. Stone. I simply had no way of—”

Trevor ignored his apology and jumped, “Can you save her? Can you stop it from hurting her? I…can’t lose her…I can’t…”

Shepherd squeezed Trevor’s shoulder.

Johnny told him, “It is merely an implant. If I can get the correct enzyme I simply inject her and it will shrivel and die.”

Trevor breathed a sigh of relief and stared at the floor.

Shepherd cocked a suspicious eye and wagged a finger at the image.

“Tell me something, doc. What exactly is this thing doin’ inside my girl’s head?”

Dr. Maple answered enthusiastically, “You know how a, ah, computer works?”

“A little.”

“Right,” Maple pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “When you…say …save a, um, program or load software your computer writes that information to a hard drive. Think of the hard drive, in this case, as the part of Ms. Forest’s brain that stores memories. Well, what The Order has apparently done is—for sake of an example—they’ve rigged an external floppy drive. They were able to, well, have her brain access that external drive—this patch of film—where it found false memories.”

Reverend Johnny joined, “I see this metaphor despite my disdain for those monsters of megabytes. To put a fine point on it, this ‘floppy drive’ became her primary memory storage area, although she still could call up older memories from her hard drive.”

Jerry Shepherd scratched his chin and remarked, “Well, ain’t that clever.”

“The problem is, um, that—to continue to use the, ah, metaphor—her floppy drive is getting, well, it’s getting full. It just doesn’t have the same capacity as the main brain. That’s why she’s been passing out. Over load. We can give her stimulants to keep her going for a while. But, well, eventually this could lead to, ah, severe brain damage and, well, um…”

“What? Whoa. Hold on a moment,” Trevor alternated his eyes from Johnny to Maple to Johnny again. “But she’s going to be okay, right? I mean, you can get this out?”

The Rev calmed, “Yes, Mr. Stone. We will need to return to The Order’s abandoned base in Allentown. There I’ll find the correct enzymes. I inject her, and a minute later it disintegrates.”

“Thank God.”

Trevor wiped a hand of relief across his brow but paused when he spied Reverend Johnny and Dr. Maple share glance.

“What? What is it?”

Johnny licked his lips.

Shepherd said, “Seems to me there’s a cat you haven’t let out of the bag.”

“Mr. Stone…Trevor,” Johnny proceeded delicately. “I don’t believe you’ve followed the metaphor to its fullest extent. When I say Ms. Forest will be as right as rain, I mean physically.”

“But?”

“This…this ‘floppy drive’ as we’ve been calling it…this is where she’s been storing all of her memories since its implant. When we destroy it…when we inject the counter-agent and remove it, then she will…”

Shepherd finished, “She’ll lose all her memories going back to the helicopter crash.”

Trevor’s comprehension came slowly. The dots connected one by one.

“All her…memories…”

He collapsed his weight against a counter top.

“All of her memories of me. Of the two of us…she—”

In a soft voice Shepherd said, “She won’t even know who you are. She won’t know anyone around here ‘cept me. She won’t know about the estate or what she went through at The Order or the Redcoats or whatever happens between now and when the Rev here kills that thing.”

Trevor mumbled, “Everything…the person she has become since then…that person won’t exist anymore.”

*

“Show yourself! Show yourself you son of a bitch!”

Trevor pushed through the forest. Bats scattered and an owl raced for cover. Tyr trailed at a discrete distance but even the K9 trembled at his enraged master.

He ran out of curses and let loose a howl of anguish that roared through the night.

Then Trevor collapsed and rolled over. His limbs felt weak and worn and for the first time since the day Armageddon had descended upon humanity, he felt completely at the mercy of the universe.

The branches above reached toward the stars with indifference.

“Wasn’t my doin’. I can promise you that, Trev. This is just one of them, oh, what you would call it? Coincidences. Irony. Shit like that. I dunno.”

Trevor gasped, “Why?”

“You deaf or sometin’? I had notin’ to do with it. But I see a chance for you to part ways easy enough. She won’t even know she ever knew you. Easy way out.”

“Easy? Easy way out? For such an all-knowing entity you don’t know shit, do you? You have no idea what she means to me. You want me to fight this fight? Then help me keep her. She’s my strength. Don’t you get it? She gives me the strength to keep going.”

“Naw,” the Old Man countered coolly. “You and I both know that’s a lie. In fact, I get the feelin’ you’re gunna be a much better fighter without her. You’re going to go through the rest of your life with nothing else but the ‘cause.’ You’re gunna be so pissed off at this world for takin’ her away that you’re gunna kill all that more easy. Slaughter them all, Trev. Maybe if you kill enough of ‘em you’ll feel better.”

“I hate you. You know that? I hate you for what you made me.”

The Old Man chuckled.

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

*

A pair of kerosene lamps on the fireplace mantle filled the living room with an oily, smoky scent. Nina sat on the floor in the soft glow with her knees pulled to her chin and a blank expression painted on her face.

“I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to go back to who I was.”

Trevor eased to the floor next to her. Outside, early birds spread the word that a new day would soon dawn.

He told her, “Memories. Memories and experiences shape us, I guess like a river can cut out a canyon over time.”

“Take away my memories for the last year and I’m just a Philly police officer thinking the only way to survive is to keep moving. Not to get tied down. Not to get attached.”

Trevor remembered the shy girl with the icy cold eyes. Since then…so much.

Nina struggled, “I can’t do it. I think I’d rather…I’d rather…”

“No. I won’t watch you die.”

She spoke in words that were angry, sad, and scared all at the same time: “If we do this then you have to fight to win me back. Do you promise? You get through to me. You tell me about us and everything. You break through…you break…through.”

He whispered, “We should do this as soon as possible. I don’t like the risk to you.”

She shook her head.

“We might die in the next day or so. I’m just saying, if that’s the case then I want to die the person I am now. If we survive this battle, then we talk. But not before then.”

He nodded acceptance of her terms. He knew the doctors could give her stimulants to stave off the problem for a while.

*

The sun climbed the horizon and glared across the lake. Overhead clouds drifted on a sea of blue while a light coating of dew sparkled on the grass.

Nina left the estate and walked with her eyes staring at the ground and Odin alongside.

She could not remember ever feeling so afraid for the future. After how far she had come—how far she and Trevor had come—after all these months. To lose him now…she might as well lose an arm or a leg.

She rubbed a hand against the side of her head but felt nothing there. She had never felt anything there. They hid it well.

A curious sight interrupted her thoughts: a white dog.

No. Not a dog. A wolf. A white wolf waiting near the stairs to her apartment.

“What..?”

To her surprise, Odin trotted toward the creature.

The wolf headed into the forest. Odin followed.

Nina stood still.

Odin stopped.

The wolf stopped.

Both animals gazed at her.

Nina, although she did not know why, followed the beasts into the woods and over a ridge. There she saw something more puzzling: an old man sitting at a campfire.

He raised a hand and waved to her.

Nina cautiously approached. The wolf sat behind the man and Odin relaxed by the fire.

“Come on now, honey, nothin’ to be worryin’ ‘bout. I’m a friend. Sort of.”

“A friend?”

“Now ole’ Trev didn’t go tellin’ you ‘bout me? With how close you two been ‘n all. Thought he woulda shared.”

Trevor had dropped hints about a mysterious entity that saved him in the early days. Nina never pushed to find out more. She did not need to know all the secrets.

He took a long gander at her.

“So you’re Nina Forest, mm-mm. I can certainly see why he finds you so alluring.”

Nina fidgeted, both uncomfortable and on guard.

“Now don’t you go getting yourself all worked up. I’m just passin’ time. Besides, you’re the one with the big gun, right?”

She felt the weight of her M4 on her shoulder and calmed.

“That’s all right and good. That’s the way of you, ain’t it? The feel of that rifle…makes you feel invincible. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that these days.”

“Who are you?”

“Seems to me the world coulda done pretty damn well if you had been the other half of all this. Now that woulda been somethin’ to see.” The Old Man hooted a laugh. “Oh dear goodness, that woulda almost been unfair. The two of you runnin’ over the baddies like a hot knife cuttin’ through margarine.”

“You’ve been helping Trevor all this time.”

“No, no, don’t go takin’ credit away from him. Fact is I helped him a lot less than he thinks. Just sorta pointed him in the right direction. He’s got a—what would you call it?—a natural pre-dis-po-zi-shun to what he’s doin’. It’s in his genes.”

Nina blurted, “I love him.”

The pronouncement dampened the Old Man’s mood. He appeared sad or disappointed.

“Yessir, that’s comin’ across clear. And you wanna know something? He’s all ‘bout you. That’s why I’m so scared. Me! Scared! Ain’t that just to beat the band? A little old emotion could go breakin’ that chain Trevor’s on. Breakin’ it and causin’ everything to fall ‘part.”

“What are you saying? Look, I’m not really good with doublespeak.”

“Nope, that’s true. I could see that right off. That’s why I like you so much, little lady. That and I got a soft spot for Trevor and I’d like to see him happy but that ain’t in the cards.”

Nina slung her head.

“Then you know about this memory thing. You know what it means to me and him.”

The Old Man corrected, “Best thing that ever happened. Hell, old Voggoth tried to pull a fast one and it’s come full circle and bit him in the ass. If he hadn’t put that in you, who knows if I’d be able to stop this? Something tells me Trevor would rather see the whole ball o’ wax die off than say goodbye to you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Like I said, I like you. I damn well respect how much of a soldier you are, too. Lookin’ ahead, I can see some big things for you. Because I like you, I’m gunna do something I’m not supposed to be doin’. Don’t matter none, though. You’ll either be dead or this will be forgotten.”

“What are you talking about? Who are you?”

The Old Man smiled and said, “Sit by the fire for a spell and I’ll tell you a story.”

Contact

The army approaching from the south—the “Vikings”—spent the night camped on the side of a mountain overlooking the neglected farms around Drums, Pennsylvania. At dawn, they resumed their northbound march along Interstate 81.

Stonewall split his forces into two brigades and maneuvered to engage the aliens. The General personally led “First Brigade” with Kristy Kaufman and Benny Duda, the 13-year old trumpeter, at his side. Dustin McBride once again commanded “Second Brigade” with the aid of Woody “Bear” Ross and Cassy Simms. Each formation included twenty-five mounted fighters.

Stonewall spent the first hours of his mission reconnoitering the enemy. When he garnered enough information, he found a safe spot atop a grassy slope, unpacked a heavy transmitter, and radioed his findings.

Miles away, Eagle One sat silent in a parking lot between the western banks of the Susquehanna and Route 11. Trevor and Dante, in the cockpit, listened to Stonewall’s report.

“The enemy can be considered humanoid in that they have two arms, two legs, a pair of eyes, and the like, and they are most certainly not barbarians. The ‘Viking’ name assigned to them is quite misleading. In terms of appearance, they’ve got big, puffy cheeks with wiry hair, a kind of whiskers I suppose. Their heads are mainly bald. Indeed, as I look at them I recall the fancy creatures of a Dr. Seuss book in that their outward appearance is almost peaceful. Alas, I regret to report their nature to be far more militaristic.”

Trevor radioed, “What do you mean?”

After a patch of static, Stonewall answered, “They wear a battle suit resembling a poncho with a hood and goggles and a kind of rough trousers beneath. Their wardrobe displays a rather interesting attribute in that it changes colors to match surroundings, like a chameleon. These ponchos will turn green when walking through the grass, brown or rusty red in the forest. It was our misfortune to realize this ability when one of my riders found himself ambushed.”

“Okay. I see what you’re saying.”

“This group appears to be the most, um, capable of the forces we’ve faced to date. They use scouts and pickets and guard their flanks. They’ve broken their marching formation into smaller ranks to better conceal their number. Indeed, I invested many hours of scouting before gleaning the most basic information.”

“What about weapons?”

“Their main armament is a kind of rifle. It fires fairly silently, therefore I suspect no powder cartridge; perhaps a magnetic mechanism that projects a pellet that kills more with speed than size. I suspect their guns to be at least as lethal as our own.”

While Trevor mulled that information, Stonewall emphasized the bad news: “It is my opinion we are facing the best fighters we have seen thus far. They are not going to fall easily into a ruse in that they exhibit a degree of battlefield awareness lacking in the Redcoats.”

“Weaknesses?”

“I have not spied any air cover. Considering Mr. Dunston was struck by ground fire it is fair to assume they are capable of defending against air attack. Furthermore, I saw no artillery, but there are several carts or wagons pulled by what can best be described as reptilian elephants.”

Trevor asked, “How many?”

“As I have indicated, they go to great lengths to hide their numbers. My best estimate is somewhere between three and four hundred.”

Trevor sighed. With three armies approaching, he had hoped to outdo enemy quantity with quality. It now seemed that the Vikings alone would pose problem enough.

He transmitted, “Okay, then, you need to slow them down. Whether we live or die might just depend on how much of a pain in their ass you can be.”

“I will endeavor to be as big a pain as possible.”

The communication ended.

Dante, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, asked, “Now what?”

“Now we start our own little war up here.”

“Let me get this straight, buddy. Two thousand Red Hand warriors marching toward us and to stop them we’ve got me, you, and about three hundred K9s? That sum it up?”

Trevor told Dante, “You’re forgetting something.”

He changed to a different frequency and radioed, “So, sweet heart, you ready?”

Nina’s voice answered, “Roger that, we’re coming up on you.”

Dante cocked an ear and, after a moment, heard the beating blades of two Apache helicopters.

“Okay, I get it, we’ve got the choppers. Still, man, ain’t these odds kind of shitty?”

Trevor answered him honestly, “Get used to it.”

*

“Let us labor with the strength of the Lord! Put your back into it, for Christ’s sake!” Reverend Johnny directed his words at the work party digging trenches, building earth walls, and clearing fields of fire along the summit of a ridge.

His workers wore tshirts and heavy-duty boots; jeans and sweat pants, even a few in khaki shorts. Those men and women—some old, some young—once worked as teachers and retail clerks, waitresses and stock boys. Now they were something akin to army engineers.

Johnny’s ridge served as the first of three defensive lines atop three consecutive wooded mountains separated one by one by small valleys. In front of his position descended a forested slope. To his right and far below ran the lanes of Interstate 81 as that road cut through the mountains south of Wilkes-Barre.

The Reverend supervised a crew of nearly one hundred laborers and he knew that soon they would trade in their shovels and spades for rifles and mortars.

Jerry Shepherd’s voice came from the radio Johnny carried: “We need to work faster, people, we need time on our side, and it ain’t there yet.”

Reverend Johnny’s answer traveled the airwaves to a camouflage-painted Winnebago parked along the highway in the rear area of the ‘southern front.’

“We will endeavor to increase our pace, Mr. Shepherd, Lord willing these battlements will stand ready within the hour.”

Shep, inside the mobile command post, did not bother to answer. He knew everyone in his command, including Johnny, understood the challenge ahead. It probably served no good to badger them but, for the time being, Shep could do little more than badger.

Estimates put the Viking army at less than three hours away. The newly christened General feared his men would not be ready for the fight. However, a piece of good news did arrive when Rhodes, dressed in worn BDUs and a Kevlar helmet, walked into the RV and informed, “The big guns are five minutes away.”

Rhodes referred to a pair of the captured Redcoat artillery pieces.

“Good. We’ll need em’.”

Shepherd turned his attention to a map drawn on construction paper. It approximated the area he aimed to defend but lacked scale. Shep’s mind saw not the crudely sketched lines but, rather, the force mustered to defend those lines. He mentally counted the assets at his command.

Assets? Now don’t go foolin’ yourself, Shep. You’ve got yourself a patchwork of people, half of which might just run at the first gunshot.

He could not really blame them. Most of the two hundred souls he directed had received some kind of basic training over the summer: marksmanship, weapon maintenance, and rudimentary tactics. That did not change the fact that most had no combat experience and while survival in the face of Armageddon had hardened their skin, shooting at and running from monsters did not compare to the chaos and focused carnage of battle.

Still, Shep worked with the dealt hand. He knew these people to be brave, for they had survived the end of the world. He knew them to be strong, for the weak had long since perished.

Instead of dealing with the intangibles, he re-examined the basic equation.

He knew Stonewall counted fifty riders in his two brigades and currently harassed the enemy flanks. Half of Shep’s remaining force worked under Johnny’s whip atop ‘Alpha’ hill. Most of the other one hundred hurriedly prepared a second line on ‘Bravo’ hill.

A third hill still waited to be transformed into the final line. Shep understood that victory did not depend on stopping the Vikings at the first line, or the second. It depended on reinforcements from Jon Brewer and Trevor before the Vikings could overrun the third. That, of course, depended in turn on Jon’s ability to win a quick victory.

So many ifs. So little time.

*

Jon Brewer knew he faced one of the most perplexing assignments given to any military commander in history: defeat a pack of giant robots. He had to do it with one hundred human fighters resembling a ragtag militia armed with carbines, shotguns, and a few alien firearms, two of the captured Redcoat artillery pieces, and a half dozen armored vehicles including Strykers, Bradleys, and an Abrams tank.

His arsenal also included a full ton of the Redcoats’ explosive powder synthesized from Omar’s salvaged matter transfiguration machine. A little of that powder would be used to operate the artillery. Jon found other uses for the rest of the volatile chemical.

The field of battle? A 1970’s vintage shopping mall with Bon Ton and Sears anchor stores surrounded by a large parking lot.

To his advantage, Jon easily discerned the enemy’s approach: the robots would continue along Route 115 descending a mountain road into the valley leading to a major intersection north of the mall where the Cross Valley Expressway, Kidder Street, and Interstate 81 converged.

He prepared his forward positions on a grassy slope overlooking that intersection. The land there further aided his cause in that Rt. 115 led into the intersection via a long straightaway.

The first part of Jon’s plan placed abandoned cars on that patch of straight road.

Boylen—the big Irish guy—rigged those cars with explosives.

Jon, laying prone on the grassy bank at the intersection, raised his field glasses to survey the car bombs on the road ahead. Boylen sat nearby checking a makeshift detonator board.

Brewer muttered, “Wow, well, I hope this does the trick.”

Major Tom Prescott’s voice broadcast over the radio: “Hey Brewer, you out there?”

Jon answered the call, “Yeah, Tom, please don’t tell me the roof gave way.”

“Relax; you got the US Army on the job. Both of the guns are up on the mall’s roof and, yeah, they’re holding. But, pardon my French, this was one heck of a job.”

Jon relaxed… a little. The demo charges were in place and the artillery pieces were exactly where he wanted them. Two less things to worry about.

Nothing left to do now but wait for the ‘Roachbots’ to make contact.

*

The Red Hands swarmed south on Route 11 like army ants. Several dozen human slaves—shackled—shambled along in the midst of that swarm porting sacks for their masters.

To the north of Pittston, Route 11 ran on the eastern side of the Susquehanna River. However, as it moved into the quaint downtown stretch of that small town’s Main Street, the route crossed the river via two bridges.

The northern most of those two bridges crossed to the same intersection where Trevor had first met Reverend Johnny during the battle with The Order’s missionary. The second—a quarter mile south of the first—led to a sedate riverside neighborhood.

A solitary Humvee with a fifty-caliber machine gun sped along on 11 hurrying north. Dante drove. Wind whipped through Trevor’s shoulder-length hair as he stood in the cupola.

Trevor heard Dante’s voice crackle in his earpiece, “So, man, what’s this plan again?”

Dante had asked the question five times and each time he sounded more skeptical.

“Relax, Miss, we’ve got a couple of Apaches covering us.”

Dante snickered at the insult before reminding, “Right. Me, you, and two helicopters against thousand of these guys. Yeah, I’m relaxed, man.”

“Odds will get better once we get back to West Pittston. Then we’ve got the K9s.”

“You mean, IF we get back, right?”

Trevor directed Dante to park in a gas station next to dry pumps.

The minutes ticked away until at 2 p.m. on June 2, the battle began.

First came the sound: a vibration. The noise of two thousand pale warriors dressed in animal skins jogging forward. They came as if a flood, filling side streets, pouring around trees, trampling bushes, climbing over dead automobiles, crossing porches, and knocking aside trashcans and human bones left in the aftermath of Armageddon.

The rumble grew to a pounding stampede. Windows on houses shook; cans on vacant store shelves rattled; a plastic number ‘9’ on the gas station marquee fluttered to the ground.

“Oh Christ.”

Trevor ignored Dante’s curse. His eyes remained transfixed on the approaching surge.

“Um…Trev..?”

Just as Dante seemed ready to bolt, Trevor brought the gun to life.

The heavy weapon fired furiously sending a vibration through Trevor’s body and the entire vehicle. Shell casings flew to the pavement and blasts of fire flashed from the barrel.

Massive rounds tore into the line of Red Hands; a line so thick Trevor could not miss even at one-hundred yards. The shots sent gushes of red gore into the air and cut torsos in two.

He swayed the gun side to side. The hail of destruction obliterated a porch post. A second later, the roof there collapsed in a cloud of splintering wood and dust.

The Red Hands did not waver even as the lead row of their army disintegrated. Bows pulled taught. Axes rose above screaming heads. Elongated fingers gripped spears and charged.

“Trev…Trevor!”

“Wait!” Trevor shouted into the microphone to be heard above the clatter of the gun.

More savages fell. He blasted the legs off one, the head off another. Yet they still came! Even with the gore of their brethren splashing on their shoulders and cheeks, the warriors refused to retreat. Indeed, the carnage appeared to encourage their charge.

“Go! Go! Go!”

Dante gunned the gas, cranked the wheel, and raced south on the road. An arrow clanged off the bumper of the Humvee; an errant spear rattled the pavement behind.

The Red Hands raced forward as if their legs might catch the fleeing motor car. However, their attention quickly changed.

One of the Apache gunships appeared in the sky above the battlefield. It dove fast with bullets ripping from its thirty-millimeter cannon. Warriors literally exploded. Some vainly tossed spears or shot arrows at the chopper but the bulk sought cover in houses and storefronts.

The attack helicopter veered away after the Humvee had completed its escape.

With the roar of the machine gun temporarily silenced, Trevor realized how heavy he breathed. He still felt the vibration of the weapon in his bones; his gloved hands felt numb.

Trevor caught his breath and spied the parking lot of an old lumberyard. He banged on the roof of the speeding Humvee and ordered, “Okay. Stop here and wait for them to catch up.”

Dante’s voice quivered as he asked, “We gotta do this again?”

“Dante, old buddy, we’re going to be doing this for a while.”

*

“Saddle up!” Stonewall commanded as alien small arms fire rat-tat-tatted against the wooden walls of the living room in the old farmhouse.

That house faced the western flank of I-81. Stonewall’s cavalry had occupied it an hour earlier to take potshots at the marching Vikings.

At first, only a handful of alien scouts exchanged fire with the ‘First Brigade.’ Then the better part of a column joined the fray. Garrett decided to withdraw before the enemy brought heavy weapons to bear or rushed his outnumbered skirmishers.

Kristy Kaufman, wearing a safari outfit complete with Aussie cowboy hat, crept across the grungy room to inform, “Everyone is ready, General.”

Another alien shot zipped through the empty space where a front window used to be and smacked a bookcase against an interior wall. A copy of The Farmer’s Almanac fell to the shaggy rug in two big chunks; balls of dust puffed into the air.

“We can proclaim this engagement a success,” Stonewall said as he stood then walked with Kristy to the rear of the house. “They have halted their forward progress and deployed a number of troops. It shall be some time before they continue their march.”

The two exited the back door where dead farmland stretched toward forest. Benny Duda held Stonewall’s steed as the General climbed on. Kristy hoisted herself to her own saddle.

“I suppose we’ll be doing this all the live long day, General,” she said.

Stonewall tugged the reigns of his horse and brought the beast around. The rest of his brigade formed ranks as they prepared to dash for the woods.

“My dear lady, I doubt our friends will fall for such tactics repeatedly. Eventually they will see the nature of our ways. Things will get dangerous then. Very dangerous indeed.”

*

Route 11 swung across the Susquehanna River on a traveler’s choice of two bridges. Dante, hidden on the second floor of a home overlooking the river, spied the northernmost of the spans through binoculars and watched as the Red Hands crossed that concrete, featureless overpass en route from Pittston to West Pittston.

The crossing funneled the wide swarm of marching warriors into tight columns. They proceeded with less vigor and more caution after having suffered a pummeling from both the ground and the sky for miles: dead Red Hands covered Route 11 all the way into Pittston.

Dante knew he and Trevor had gotten off cheap thus far. They had swiped at the fringes of the enemy army for hours and inflicted casualties on their foe without paying any price themselves, save for expended munitions and arrowhead scratches on the Humvee. He also knew the hit-and-run raids served merely as a prologue. Now the real fight would begin.

The skies above the alien force remained empty: no sign of any flying machines. The road ahead appeared clear: no hint of an ambush lurking. Nonetheless, the main mass of Red Hands crossed the bridge cautiously.

As soon as the first warriors reached the west side, Dante radioed, “Go.”

Two Apaches ascended from hiding spots among the residential streets of West Pittston and raced toward the bridge with chain guns spewing deadly rain. The bullets tore into the enemy columns, splitting the lead elements from the body of the alien army. While the bulk of those trapped in the open retreated the way they had come, about one hundred Red Hands ran forward to join the scouts on the western banks. There they found an army waiting.

Trevor’s army.

Grenadiers poured from the shadows between houses and from under the shade of trees and bushes, attacking from all sides. Dante grimaced as the raging beasts smashed into the enemy with no fear and no hesitation.

Claws gored. Teeth snapped. Red Hand warriors fell under the swarm as if drowning. Blood sprayed into the air above the slaughter and alien howls of pain filled Dante’s ears.

Daggers and hatchets felled K9s but not nearly enough to stem the tide. Desperate warriors tried to retreat and were blasted by choppers hovering above the open bridge.

Rifle fire joined the chorus of growls and screams and thumping helicopter blades. Dante saw Trevor, standing away from the melee along the riverbank, raise his M4 and seek targets.

Dante pointed his rifle toward the battle…and stopped. He knew he should fire, but the sight below…gruesome: less a fight and more a slaughter. Indeed, the thought of shooting his bullets at the already doomed Red Hands felt wrong; like piling on a beaten foe.

He watched a group of a six Red Hands muster together, beat back the bites of K9s, then race toward the bridge in a desperate attempt to rejoin their army on the far side. They halted in the face of the Apaches then splintered and bolted in assorted directions. Several descended the banks toward the river; others ran for side streets.

Dante watched Trevor bark orders at his army. Small groups of K9s peeled away from the main battle to pursue the fleeing aliens. A dozen Shepherds bound over the riverbank; another ten Rotties hurried off along the side streets; a trio of massive wolfhounds cornered one Red Hand on the steps of a church and tore away the extraterrestrial’s limbs.

Dante realized Trevor would allow no survivors. He planned complete extermination.

The scene below him changed from a mass battle to isolated fights to an eerie stillness around a pile of alien and canine bodies. The barking and beating faded, replaced by dying moans drifting on the breeze.

Dante sat in the window staring at the horror below. He had never seen such a bloodbath. His mouth hung open and his heart raced.

Not Trevor, though. His old friend walked calmly amidst the slaughtered with his rifle ready to snuff any lingering life.

A radio transmission from Nina shook Dante from his trance.

“Hey, we’re bingo on fuel, gotta bug out.”

Both of the helicopters hurried off on their way to the refueling station established miles south at the Luzerne County Courthouse.

Dante’s eyes settled on the far bank of the Susquehanna. He knew many more of the Red Hand aliens waited over there. He desperately wished they would change their minds and withdraw, both for his life and for his desire to avoid witnessing such carnage again.

Dante squeezed his eyes shut. Trevor’s voice—a shout from below—pulled them open.

“This is beautiful, man. Beautiful!”

Trevor Stone walked among the corpses, smiling.

*

Shep stood at the command vehicle and held the walkie-talkie close to his ear.

“I say, Mr. Shepherd, bring your guns to bear for the first rows of the devil’s legions are approaching on the Interstate for all to see.”

Shep translated Reverend-speak and concluded Johnny could see a forward formation of Viking fighters from his position atop the first mountain.

“Um…okay, Rev, you hang on and we’ll drop a little something on your visitors.”

Two of the silver, upside-down-bowl-shaped artillery pieces taken from the Redcoats last winter hovered on the black top as part of the rear assembly area that included Shep’s command vehicle. Rhodes stood fifty yards away near a parked Trailblazer along the side of Interstate 81 where he helped two men unload supplies.

“Rhodes! Hey! Get them guns goin’; we need to hit the first mark!”

Rhodes nodded and jogged away from the men unloading supplies, across the road, and to the Redcoat artillery. The gun crews—two teenage boys, an old lady, and a chubby middle-aged woman—followed Rhodes’ orders.

Barrels sprouted from the otherwise smooth domes of the pieces. The mobile guns swiveled left then right; the barrels rose another degree, and the first volley of blue pulses launched with an electric buzz.

Shep watched the projectiles lob over the mountain and disappear on the far side. A second later, he heard a distant shudder as the bolts found their mark.

“Well done, General Shepherd,” the Reverend’s voice congratulated success. “You hit the bulls eye. The fiends are scattering and withdrawing from whence they came.”

Another pair of shots blasted forth. More distant shudders.

The sharp, unmistakable crack of gunfire echoed from the mountain.

Shep radioed, “Rev, what’s going on up there?”

“Hold, Mr. Shep—NO on your RIGHT! Are you blind? THERE!”

The transmission went silent but the sound of a distant firefight intensified.

“Reverend. Report. Now.”

The pop of grenade explosions joined the crackle of gunfire.

Johnny finally answered his radio, “Skirmishers, my dear Mr. Shepherd, coming up through the woods. Apparently, the ones on the highway were not alone. Curses! On your LEFT! Mortar teams, fire!”

Shepherd gazed at the rolling mountains to the south.

Thwoop…BOOM.

Thwoop…BOOM.

Reverend Johnny reported, “Blasted trees! It seems the thick cover of the forest is diluting the effectiveness of our mortars. However, we have beaten back the devils. I believe it was merely a probe along our lines, Mr. Shepherd. However, I—wait a moment. What is that?”

While the crack of gunfire subsided, a new sound descended upon the rear area. A sort of chopping noise, as if they air vibrated.

Reverend Johnny broadcast: “General Shepherd, I fear our friends do have a trick up their sleeve. Some kind of catapults…”

A red ball arched over the mountain directly toward Shepherd’s muster zone. He realized in that instant that the ‘Vikings’ knew a great deal about counter-battery fire.

“Oh…shit…INCOMING!”

The first shot hit the highway next to the men unloading supplies from the Trailblazer. It erupted not with sound but with quiet: almost anti-noise, Shepherd thought.

In the first split-second, a round flash of red caused a tremor that knocked the men to the ground and rocked the Trailblazer, but no shrapnel, only a glowing red sparkle hovering in the air above the impact zone.

In the next split-second, that red sparkle sucked everything within the zone of effect into itself, yanking the two screaming men into the air and toward the red singularity. The Trailblazer SUV tumbled horizontally side over side.

The men…the truck…chunks of highway concrete…made contact with the red sparkle and disintegrated before the singularity collapsed.

That chopping sounded again from over the hilltop.

“Fall back! Fall back!”

The artillery crews followed Shep’s order immediately, abandoning the guns and hurrying away. Shep raced to the driver’s wheel of the RV, turned the ignition key, and slammed the transmission into reverse.

Another red ball hit the highway, tearing away rocks and dust and sucking it all to its deadly center like a tiny black hole.

The men ran; their artillery silenced.

*

The first wave of ‘Roachbots’ arrived at the bottom of the hill.

The odd machines walked in an unsure gait, as if using new legs. Each sported a faceplate with eyes resembling thin horizontal LED displays positioned above a rectangular speaker.

Jon Brewer watched through field glasses as the robotic nightmares started to cross the long straightaway his position overlooked.

The van-sized bots made a mechanical whirring as their six legs worked. Jon thought they resembled more a child’s wind up toy than some kind of sophisticated artificial intelligence. Indeed, he half expected them to get stuck against the cars parked along their path.

Still, the guns mounted on the sides of the robots’ faceplates appeared dangerous enough.

Jon held his hand aloft.

“Wait…on number five and seven….”

The lead row of robots stumbled around an old Chevrolet Camaro and a Toyota Camry.

Brewer dropped his hand, shouting, “Now! Five and seven!”

Boylen worked the demolition array. The Camaro and the Camry exploded. The concussion blasted two of the robots into halves. Sheet metal shrapnel from the cars tore the faceplate off a third; it wandered off, blinded.

The rest of the Roachbots, however, continued their approach without pause, without consideration, as if the other robots had no clue that three of their number had been destroyed.

“Two and four! Fire!”

BAM! BAM!

A commercial van and a Honda detonated. Three more robots suffered grievous wounds.

This time, however, the remaining force took notice. Several of the lead robots came to a complete halt. That’s when Jon heard the noise the creatures made, giving him his first clue as to what made the Roachbots so…so strange.

A synthesized sound came from the speakers on their faceplates. A sound similar to a doll with a pull string voice box, except the batteries of this doll ran low.

The chorus came. A chorus that could have passed for laughter. Electronic laughter.

A-hehehehe. A-hehehehe.

Then the forward most line of robots rocked side to side on their six legs like track stars stretching before a race.

A-hehehehe.

Next, they fired their guns on the remaining parked cars along their path. For some reason, those guns reminded Jon of a gangster’s Tommy gun.

In any case, the rounds ignited more of the explosive-rigged cars. Those wrecks erupted into shards of metal and engine pieces. Streams of smoke rose to the air from the burning hulks.

A-hehehehe.

The bots fired without precision. They sprayed the entire area with an absolute storm of gunfire. Their weapons swiveled on spherical mounts and shot in all directions.

Two of the lead robots crouched on their legs and jumped—hopped like frogs—over the mass of burning cars. They landed with a heavy thud on the far side of the graveyard of vehicles.

A-hehehehe.

Yet the robots remaining farther back continued to blast away at the burning cars in the same wild manner, destroying the two robots that had leapt forward with friendly fire.

“Jesus Christ,” Jon mumbled to Boylen. “These robot things…my God…they’re insane.”

A-hehehehe.

The robots finished destroying the trap of exposive-laden cars and marched forward.

The Battle of Five Armies

Trevor explained to Dante what Nina had just radioed: “They’re having trouble with the gun on Braggs’ bird and Nina’s got a mechanical problem. But they’ll both be airborne soon.”

“Soon? Soon? Man, these guys are smartening up. We don’t need her here soon; we need her here now. Do you see what they’re doing?”

Trevor, standing in the cupola, answered, “Yeah. I see.”

The Red Hands had noted the second bridge across the Susquehanna and divided into three groups: one group marching toward the northern bridge, one toward the southern one, and a third group in reserve as if to exploit any breakthrough.

Dante gritted his teeth and said, “We can’t stop them without the choppers.”

Trevor gazed at the northern bridge in front of the idling Humvee. He had dispatched the Grenadiers to guard the south bridge. As the sun dipped toward the mountainous horizon, the Red Hands came.

They moved fast but orderly, jogging across the northern bridge lined in rows by weapons with archers behind spearmen.

Before he started firing, Trevor heard barks and snarls from the far side of the neighborhood. Apparently the Red Hands engaged the K9s blocking the other span. He knew they would eventually overwhelm the dogs and breakthrough.

Fifty-caliber rounds fired, slamming into the approaching warriors. Spearmen collapsed; their bodies in pieces. Regardless, the rows continued forward, not letting the slaughter dissuade their advance. A dozen…two dozen…fifty of their number lay in piles on the bridge. The machine gun smoked…the barrel grew red hot…shell casings spat in a continuous flow…

An arrow hit the hood of the Humvee. Then a downpour of bolts smashed on and around the car one after another forcing Trevor from the gunner’s position into the safety of the armored cabin. Arrowheads clanged and scraped off the roof and hood.

Dante’s voice sounded distant and awe-struck as he gasped, “Look…look at them, man. They’re just like…they just keeping coming. They don’t care. You could kill…you could keep killing them and they’d still keep coming.”

Trevor said, “Someone set all this up. Maybe The Order. Whoever. Point is, these guys—these Red Hands—they’re just cannon fodder.”

“Cannon fodder? Huh?”

“Something more for us to shoot at. The robots and them Vikings, they’re the heavy hitters. These guys here, I’m guessing Voggoth sent them to die just to make us waste bullets.”

A particularly heavy arrow smashed directly into the windshield, popping loose a chunk of reinforced glass.

“Go. Get us out of here.”

Dante spun the car around and raced to the southern bridge. The tree lined riverside boulevard hosted gorgeous old homes gazing upon the metal buttresses of the second bridge. That boulevard ran red with the blood of primitive aliens and Trevor’s Grenadiers.

Dozens of dogs lay dead or dying from spears and arrows. Dozens of Red Hand warriors lay dead or dying from K9 teeth and talons. Like a hole in a levee, the alien warriors poured from the narrow bridge onto the street. Their numbers grew quickly and the K9s lost the advantage. Spears and arrows got the better of teeth and talons.

“Stop the car!”

Dante did as ordered, coming to a standstill in the shade of a huge Oak tree.

Trevor opened the rear door and shouted to his Grenadiers, “Retreat! Retreat!”

His personal warriors heard his call although Dante did not know if they heard through ears or thoughts. Tyr and Odin separated themselves from the battle like officers leading troops.

Trevor pulled his M4 rifle from the rear seat and shot at the Red Hands. The aliens winced at the sound. That surprise helped the K9s disengage to dash south on Route 11.

Arrows flew at the Humvee again. Trevor climbed inside.

Dante hit the gas pedal, maneuvered around the fleeing dogs, and withdrew from battle.

The Red Hands crossed the river.

*

Nearly a dozen deactivated Roachbots lay in pieces at the big intersection. Some had fallen to the explosive cars, more from heavy fire from armored vehicles. Despite such firepower, the machines pushed and pursued Jon and his men from the grassy slope.

A-hehehehe. A-hehehehe.

Jon’s front line retreated inside a convenience store; a mid way point between what had once been his forward position and the Wyoming Valley Mall.

The Abrams tank idled next to that store. The turret swiveled.

THWOOP!

An anti-armor shell obliterated the lead Roachbot.

A second, third…six Roachbots hopped from the road to the parking lot of the convenience store.

Another Abrams shell blasted another Roachbot.

A-hehehehe.

One of Jon’s men—an oriental fellow wearing a Nike T-shirt and carrying a shotgun—sprinted for the cover of an overturned 18-wheeler. Dozens of hard projectiles fired by the bots sliced through the man. He fell to the pavement a bloody mess.

More enemy fire sought out the tank. Those shots that were so lethal to the guy in the Nike T-shirt could not penetrate the hide of the Abrams, but they did make a racket akin to a rainstorm of ball bearings.

Jon watched from the convenience store as the robot attackers demonstrated that they had dealt with armor before.

Three bots targeted the tank. The first fell victim to a blast from the Abrams. The second leapt into the air and landed atop the turret with a clang. It fired at point-blank range into the war machine. At such close proximity, the rounds from its guns chipped away at the armor plating.

The third bot stood twenty yards from the Abrams and opened fire. At that range, the projectiles merely bounced off the armor. However, those projectiles obliterated the Roachbot that had leapt onto the turret.

“Well, will you look at that,” Boylen gasped.

“Wow,” Jon replied as the pieces of the enemy robot dropped from the turret. “Jesus. They’re like…I mean…these things are…they really are crazy.”

A-hehehehe.

The tank rolled forward, shaking off the last pieces of leg and faceplate. The Abrams fired another round, blasting away the Roachbot that had saved it from destruction. The alien machine sparked and splintered to bits.

A concentrated volley from well-charged Redcoat rifles destroyed the remaining bot in the parking lot, something regular bullets could not do.

The battle paused for a moment.

The majority of the Roachbot force crossed the intersection and climbed the grassy slope. They would reach the convenience store in a minute. Jon decided not to wait.

“Everyone, fall back to the mall. Boylen, get on the radio and have the gunners drop artillery all over this place. Maybe we can pick off some more with the big guns.”

“Aye.”

Jon hurried out of the store to the idling Abrams just as Prescott opened the hatch.

“Whew,” the Major removed his headset and wiped his brow. “Thought they had us.”

“We’re going to fall back to the mall now,” Jon spoke, looking up at the Major. “We’re going…going to…going…” he could not finish his sentence.

A destroyed Roachbot carcass lay next to the Abrams’ treads. Jon and Prescott saw metal circuits and hydraulic servos and other high tech wizardry there, all part of a chaotic assembly.

They also saw gore. Biological gore.

“Christ,” Prescott shivered. “That’s a…that’s a human brain.”

More Roachbots crested the ridge.

A-hehehehe.

*

Nina paced while a ground crew composed of kids who probably had never finished high school refueled her chopper in the lot across from the county courthouse. While that building still stood, most of the area remained piles of debris from last year’s Redcoat bombardment.

Nina’s thoughts, however, dwelled not on battles past but on the battle raging.

She knew a fair quantity of aviation fuel remained. That would not be the problem. Even the makeshift repair job she had done on the rear tail rotor did not worry her.

She worried more about the dwindling supply of munitions. She and Bragg had split the remaining thirty-millimeter rounds. She would have to make every shot count. Of course, if Bragg could not fix the jam on his own cannon then she would inherit his supply.

In addition, she had six small rockets for the hydra launcher and two Hellfire missiles.

Nina stopped pacing, closed her eyes, and listened to the steady thudder of the fuel pump, the cling and the clang of tools working on Bragg’s gun, and the shouts of veteran mechanics to their apprentices: “No, over there,” and “Put some muscle into it!”

Her attention floated away.

She remembered what the Old Man told her. She wondered if she should tell Trevor that the Old Man spoke to her.

No.

Trevor would want to know what the man—the entity—said but she could not tell.

She had learned that Trevor’s path led in an incredible direction, to places she could not follow. She had learned their tiny little battle in the mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania carried ramifications across the universe.

Universes.

What big concepts. What huge ideas. Her mind could not grasp the entirety of it.

Certainly the Old Man had not told her everything; only what her mind could handle.

However, she did fully comprehend one truth: she loved Trevor Stone.

Such a simple statement for such a complicated feeling.

He had brought out so much in her. She felt free to be herself with him, and free to be vulnerable. He had changed her from a shy outcast to a confident, complete person.

“Damn it, can’t you fuel this thing any faster?” she snapped at a teenaged technician. She wanted desperately to return to the air. She wanted desperately to chase away the sadness growing in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to get back to what she knew best: fighting. Apparently, it was all she would know for the rest of her life.

*

The riflemen stood ready.

The Roachbots wobbled into the mall parking lot.

A-hehehehe.

A cluster of human fighters behind overturned cars charged their Redcoat weapons then popped out from cover like a line of prairie dogs to unleash a devastating flash of energy bolts. The blasts fired into the lead trio of attackers, causing them to smoke and spark. Metallic legs detached, synthesized robotic voices droned, and tubular bodies collapsed.

Four more Roachbots appeared through the smoldering haze emanating from the dead chassis of their brethren. These four did not wait to be blasted by energy bolts. They leapt like frogs over the automotive barricades and fell among the human troops. One landed on and crushed a girl wearing a Rolling Stones tank top. The revolver she held discharged into the boot of one of Prescott’s career soldiers.

The remaining fighters broke and ran.

The bots wobbled as their legs absorbed the impact of the jump, then fired at the fleeing crowd with a Tommy gun-like rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

An old man in a surplus Army jacket…a Hispanic woman clutching a gold crucifix…a young man who had lost an eye in a previous battle…the soldier with a bullet wound to his boot…torn to pieces by the enemy’s wild volley.

Jon retreated around the corner of an upended pick up truck and pulled a grenade from his assault vest. He yanked the pin and bolted around the truck, running in on the blind side of one of the metallic monsters.

He moved to within three paces of the bot’s frame and lobbed the explosive with an underhand pitch. It clinked among the cage-like bars lining the tube-shaped body.

Jon slipped in a puddle of human blood but righted himself in time to get behind the truck a half-second before the grenade exploded. The creature’s bars bent from the concussion and jagged shrapnel punctured the faceplate from behind. The beast flopped to the pavement motionless; another synthesized laugh silenced.

As Jon shouted, “retreat!” Boylen stepped forward and threw a Molotov cocktail. The liquid fire splashed onto and seeped into one of the things. It staggered about wildly, screeching and firing at nothing and everything before suffering a terminal malfunction.

The human defenders who had not already run fled the ring of dead automobiles comprising the outer defenses. A pair of armored Bradley Fighting Vehicles rolled forward and covered the withdrawal to a second row of defenses closer to the cluster of mall buildings. There waited another thirty men and women with a few Redcoat energy muskets and machine guns.

Jon—running across the open ground between the barricades—raised his radio and transmitted an order to the men atop the Wyoming Valley Mall.

“Artillery! Fire!”

Pairs of blue plasma balls fell from the roof of a department store, dropping on the advancing lines of Roachbots. One suffered a direct hit and disintegrated into shavings. The blast from that shot knocked two off balance and disorientated a third.

Jon leaned on the undercarriage of a flipped Nissan Pathfinder alongside other defenders, switched radio frequencies, and shouted one name: “Omar!”

Jon barely heard the response over blasts of both human and Roachbot weapons: “Do not bother me, I am being very busy.”

“I hope to hell you’re ready because we’re running out of time!”

He heard the crackle and felt the vibration of more confiscated alien artillery dropping on the attackers but the clatter of Roachbot machine guns tinging and tinking against the opposite side of the flipped Pathfinder warned that the invaders approached.

Omar responded obstinately, “I will be ready in five minutes.”

“We…don’t…have…five…minutes!”

A-hehehehe.

A bot climbed the flipped Pathfinder and peeked down at the defenders. Boylen pulled a heavy-duty military shotgun and blasted the thing. Mechanical gears and gooey brain oozed from the smashed faceplate.

Boylen reacted with disgust, “Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph!”

Jon peered around the barricade and spied a parking lot full of enemy machines. They spread into a wide front and advanced toward the flipped cars outside the mall. Another blast of blue plasma hit, tossing one end-over-end and frying another into sparking pieces, but Jon realized that the Roachbots would be under the firing arc of the rooftop artillery in seconds.

“Artillery teams,” he radioed. “Time to bug out!”

Jon then yelled to the dozens of men and women clustered around the primitive battlements, “The rest of you, inside the mall! Hustle!”

They ran again, a mob of people toting alien muskets, machine guns, shotguns, and pistols. The Roachbots fired at their backs. Professional soldiers from Prescott’s group and average citizens turned modern-era minutemen fell side by side.

One of the Bradley Fighting Vehicles tried to buy time for the retreating humans. It drove forward firing from its twenty-five millimeter cannon, scoring a direct hit on and destroying one of the six-legged machines.

A Roachbot responded by leaping into the air and landing atop the Bradley, its flat-bottom legs sliding and scraping against the armor plating as it hugged the vehicle.

A-hehehehe.

The bot self-destructed in a powerful blast that shook the ground and severed the top of the Bradley clean off. Secondary detonations tore apart what remained.

Jon and Boylen reached the barricades at the entrance to the mall. Shrapnel from the Bradley/Bot explosion rained behind them. When the hail of metal ended, Jon took a good look at the battlefield.

Pieces of the cybernetic monstrosities littered the area but dozens more of the machines continued to advance. Among the broken gears, robotic legs, and detached faceplates lay the bodies of some forty of Jon’s defenders, including several still writhing and moaning in the vain hope that assistance might come.

Jon hovered for a moment, not wishing to leave living comrades behind. Not again.

“Aye, let’s go,” and Boylen dragged him through the barricades erected around the set of glass doors marking the northern entrance to the mall. While most of the alien machines followed the retreating remnants of the human army, three of them focused on the rooftop artillery. Those three robots crouched low…

…Ah-hehehehe…

…and hopped dozens of feet into the air toward the roof.

One missed the mark, bounced off the gutter, and fell to the pavement belly up. Its legs kicked air like an overturned cockroach. The other two robots jumped successfully and cut down the slowest members of the gun crews before turning their weapons on the artillery pieces.

Jon— behind the barrier of tables and planks piled between the entrance doors—called to Prescott who stood nearby after having relinquished command of his Abrams.

“Get everyone out of here, just like we planned.”

Prescott did as instructed. The assembled fighters followed him through the racks of clothes, shoes, suits, and jewelry of the store’s men’s department. Jon, however, stopped two of those fighters from going.

“Boylen, Casey, you’re with me.”

Casey muttered, “This type of plan never worked for the coyote.”

The Roachbots reached the last rampart and started to shove through.

Jon led Boylen and Casey across the department store toward the interior of the mall.

“Get the security door ready.”

Casey slung his Redcoat energy rifle on his shoulder and lowered the heavy metal grated gate that shielded the store from the wide halls of the enclosed mall. He stopped halfway.

“Jon! We got ourselves company!”

Brewer saw what Boylen saw: a Roachbot in the aisle between dress shirts and shoes.

A-hehehehe.

Boylen raised his Redcoat musket and let a volley of energy fly, missing wide. The bot responded in kind, obliterating a nearby mannequin.

Jon did not need to issue the order: he and Boylen passed Casey who then dropped the security gate all the way. The three ran off as Roachbot shots sparked against the closed gate and a chorus of Ah-hehehehe echoed.

Jon raised his radio as he ran.

“Prescott? Status?”

The response came, “We’re outta there, Jon. You guys are it. Got a couple of them robots on the roof but most of the rest followed you in. Shit, there’s probably three or four dozen of them things in there with you.”

The sound of the store’s security gate collapsing rattled through the mall as Jon and the others rounded a corner next to a video game store. They ran along a hall that opened to a food court with exit doors on the far side.

A cloud of dust and flying panels avalanched from the ceiling.

A-hehehehe.

A pair of crazy red electronic eyes cut through the billowing debris. The men scattered. The Roachbot’s twin guns fired, spraying a nearby arcade as well as ripping through Boylen.

Casey—his own alien rifle well-charged—fired. The burst blasted straight through the robot. Its beady red eyes flickered and died and it rolled on its side, motionless.

Jon stared at Boylen who had been reduced to a bloody pulp.

No time remained to mourn. A cacophony of metallic clatter announced the approach of the horde.

Jon and Casey exited the mall and sprinted across the south parking lot.

The crawl spaces and storage rooms throughout the shopping center had been packed full of the explosive Redcoat powder Omar had spent hours replicating from sand with the matter-making contraption, turning the Wyoming Valley Mall into one gigantic powder keg.

Jon heard the glass doors at the food court entrance behind him shatter outward. Time had run out. With his legs pumping and his breath heaving, he shouted into his radio.

“Omar! Hit it!”

*

“Here they come!” Shepherd yelled as the attackers charged through the trees and up the hill toward the first line of defenses.

Reverend Johnny quoted Leviticus: “I will release wild animals that will kill your children and destroy your cattle, so your numbers will dwindle and your roads will be deserted!”

Shepherd translated, “Fire! Fire at will!”

Nearly one hundred and fifty fighters lined the sloppily dug trenches and overturned trees marking the first line of defense. A stretch of forest in front of those battlements had been cut and cleared, creating an open killing ground between the human lines and the dense woods from where the Vikings assaulted.

Shepherd watched as the aliens stampeded forward hooting an enthusiastic holler that he figured to be their version of a rebel yell.

He tried to guess the number of attackers, but their chameleon cloaks made such estimates difficult for he could only see shadows and silhouettes.

Seventy-Five? One hundred?

Riflemen fired. The crack and pop of scattered shots erupted along the front. Shepherd feared that for many of his ‘soldiers’ those shots served as the first they ever fired in anger.

The leading alien squads emerged from the dark forest and into the twilight sun that glowed softly over the field of stumps and cleared brush. The ponchos that had shaded black and gray to hide among the trees instantly morphed into a soft orange high and a brown/green pattern low but even such powerful camouflage could not hide the aliens in the open.

Human bullets slammed into Viking chests knocking one, two, then more of the invaders to the ground. Crimson stains seeped through their battle suits.

The Vikings responded. The extraterrestrial weapons swooshed and buzzed as they launched small but fast slugs.

A man in a Philadelphia Eagles jersey stumbled backwards as one of the small projectiles flew through his body so fast and so powerful that it left an exit wound as large as what Shep would expect from a shotgun at close range.

More men fell…and women…and kids who should have been in high school or college, not fighting and dying.

Shepherd saw first one, then a scattered few, then a dozen of his troops lose their stomach for battle. Some discarded their weapons and ran; others tried to sneak off.

“Hold your lines! Keep up your fire!”

Shepherd ran forward into the thick of it. Guns fired to his right and left. Alien shots buzzed his ear. One sliced through the shoulder of a bald black man armed with an antique hunting rifle. The man staggered and howled. Two army medics hauled him away.

Shep pulled a semi-automatic pistol, stepped on to a protruding tree root to gain a better view, aimed his pistol, and squeezed the trigger once, twice, thrice. One round pierced the hooded head of an alien, turning it into a lifeless mass.

He paused and surveyed his warriors.

The lawyers and sales reps and plumbers fought bravely but they could not match the skill of the highly trained extraterrestrial mercenaries. Nonetheless, he realized the Vikings hurled only a small portion of their force against the lines, perhaps more interested in gaining information than ground. At least for the time being.

Reverend Johnny ignited his flamethrower and waded into the chaos. A wall of fire caught and burned two of the enemy while sending another bunch fleeing.

“But as for these enemies of mine who did not want me to be king over them—bring them here and SLAUGHTER THEM IN MY PRESENCE!”

Shep did not know if Johnny’s flamethrower did the trick or if the Vikings had simply gleaned the knowledge they sought, but whatever the reason the attackers withdrew in an orderly fashion leaving twenty of their number dead in the field.

Reverend Johnny stood tall and shook his fist at the aliens as they left, shouting: “I will leave your FLESH on the mountains, and fill the valleys with your carcass. I will water the land with what flows from you, and the river beds shall be FILLED WITH YOUR BLOOD!”

Shepherd smiled because he knew the Reverend’s brave defiance would inspire the troops and, perhaps, keep others from deserting when the next assault came.

However, his smile faded as his eyes counted ten dead human bodies at the barricades.

A clap like thunder rolled across the mountaintop. That thunder—that explosion—rode in on a southward bound breeze tickling the treetops. The human defenders glanced around nervously, but to Shepherd’s ears that explosion sounded as sweet music.

*

An hour after the detonation of the mall and the Roachbots lured therein, Trevor could still see a large plume of smoke on the horizon. He hoped Jon’s plan had succeeded as designed, but more immediate issues held his attention.

The two men and their Humvee idled alongside a parked Eagle air ship. Behind them, the mass of surviving Grenadiers trotted southward along Route 11; they were not a part of Trevor’s battle plan for the upcoming skirmish.

Ahead of them, the Red Hand army approached the northern side of the strip mall parking lot where the men, their Humvee, and the air ship waited.

“Trev…they’re here…man, we should get the hell out of here…”

“I want to hurt them a little more. Then we jump in the Eagle and fly south to meet up with the K9s. Relax.”

Dante leaned out the driver’s side window and glanced toward the sky saying, “I’d be more relaxed if those Apaches were back.”

“Yeah, well, they’re having problems with the fuel pump. We’ll just have to make do.”

The pale-skinned invaders surged from the road into the lot toward the men.

Trevor saw anger in their eyes: hatred. Trevor figured that hatred came in one part from the Red Hands’ disdain for all things technological but also from the frustration of having suffered so many casualties at the hands of so few.

Trevor added to their frustration.

He stood in the Humvee cupola and brought the fifty-caliber weapon to life again. The bullets sprayed in a continuous stream, crushing the enemy with speed and force; tearing off limbs, exploding skulls, cutting bodies in two.

It did not matter. The Red Hands kept coming.

Trevor fired again…but the weapon malfunctioned.

“God damn it! Damn it!”

“What? What!”

Trevor climbed from the vehicle and retrieved his M4.

“Overheated…something. It’s FUBAR, okay? Just start shooting!”

The two men lay prone on the pavement by the Eagle’s landing pods.

Trevor took aim and squeezed the trigger easily. The recoil bounced the stock off his shoulder and an enemy fighter dropped. Then another. Another.

Dante gulped air and yanked the trigger in quick, excited bursts. The approaching mass stood in such tight ranks that he could not miss. One of his blasts hit an alien in the leg; the rushing mob trampled the wounded warrior.

The sky filled with arrows. Most hit the pavement ahead of Trevor and Dante, a handful bounced of the Eagle’s nose cone and the Humvees hood. Not quite in range…

“Let’s go! Inside!”

They raced from cover and climbed the entry ramp. Arrows slammed into the bulkhead as it slid closed.

“What now?” Dante asked his question as the two men walked fast toward the cockpit of the ship. The sound of arrows banging off the hull reverberated through the interior.

“We fly over and get the K9s. Then we make another—”

The rain of arrows stopped.

The two men stood in the cockpit in surprised silence. A new sound started soft then grew loud: the thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades…the rumble of engines…the grating squeal of treads.

Trevor hurried to the pilot’s seat and activated the radio.

“Nina? Nina, is that you?”

“Look, I’m kinda busy, can’t talk right now. Oh yeah, I brought some company along.”

A chorus sprung to life. The voices in that chorus included the heavy cannon of Bradley Fighting Vehicles, the chainsaw-like buzzing of helicopter cannons, the snap and pop of rifles.

Trevor slipped on the ship’s navigation goggles, affording him a view of the outside.

The infantry from Brewer’s relief force formed a protective perimeter around the Eagle while the armored vehicles and choppers rushed to encircle the Red Hand army.

With the Apaches flying overhead, the heavily armed ground troops engaged the spear-throwing, arrow-shooting primitives. The scene resembled scythes cutting fields of wheat.

Red Hand weapons bounced off armored plates. Human bullets fired without mercy, even when the aliens ran. In a few minutes, the blacktop of Route 11 grew heavy with dead aliens.

The tide of battle on the northern front changed, just as the trap at the mall had changed the eastern front. To the south, things looked much different.

*

The Vikings attacked again, this time after dark aided by their own version of night vision equipment.

The enemy crossed the mountain field in full force with magnetic guns whirring and buzzing. Alien shrapnel grenades exploded in front of and behind barricades. Shepherd watched his defenders—already weary from a day of cutting, digging, and fighting—fall like broken matchsticks one after another. Their volleys of defensive fire felt weak and half-hearted, despite Reverend Johnny shouting refrain after refrain of inspiration.

The enemy reached the defensive lines. Rifles fired at point-blank range; knives and fists became weapons of desperation. The tree branches overhead trapped the smoke of spent cartridges, creating a surreal, smelly fog floating above the battle.

Shepherd called in Stonewall’s mounted soldiers to cover a retreat.

One hundred of the human fighters managed to disengage from the melee and fall back. They left behind the screams of dying comrades and pockets of doomed holdouts who failed to hear the call to evacuate.

Shep, at the rear of his running mob retreating through the darkness to the second mountain line, heard an alien victory yell from the top of the mountain he had just surrendered.

“Woooweeeeee! Woooweeeeee!”

Last Stand

Trevor Stone watched the day begin from atop the second mountain knowing that in this new world each new day brought another fight for survival.

He sighed and took stock of his forces: one-hundred survivors from the first mountain’s defense line, another fifty who had been in reserve, and forty remaining from Stonewall’s cavalry. Forty more followed Jon Brewer from the eastern front to the southern one, but the majority of those fighters had suffered injuries during the Roachbot encounter.

The sum of the equation totaled two hundred and thirty—less than a quarter being trained, pre-Armageddon military—plus fifty K9s. Trevor left the remainder of his surviving dogs back on Route 11 to hunt Red Hand stragglers.

Overall, he felt Shep had done a fine job preparing the ground for war. Nonetheless, Trevor had other preparations to make.

It had not taken him long to realize the Vikings held the advantage in every way except terrain. They outnumbered the humans (Stonewall’s reconnaissance suggested three hundred aliens occupied the first hill), the quality of their soldiers exceeded Trevor’s own, and the Vikings showed no signs of ammunition shortage, unlike his own dwindling supply of ordnance.

Yes, he would make a last stand in those mountains. If the second defense line fell then they would retreat to the third, and there they would hold to the grand conclusion. However, Trevor would not let humanity die. He had sent Omar to the estate to form an escape party. If all else failed, the eccentric engineer would round up everyone who remained—including Anita Nehru and Lori Brewer—and run.

Trevor watched a beautiful new day dawn and wondered if he would ever see another.

*

Three deuce and a half trucks, the Abrams tank atop a flat bed, and one Bradley fighting vehicle comprised the convoy which parked on the shoulder of I-81 far behind the front lines and beyond the estimated range of the Viking catapults.

The drivers disembarked from their cabs. Most wore camouflage jackets to chase away the morning chill but soon the day would warm considerably.

Tolbert commanded the convoy and while the tank may have been the most striking of the vehicles, the supplies inside the cargo trucks were the most important.

He radioed, “Base this is Hungry Hippo, you guys awake?”

After a moment, he received an answer: “Ah, roger that, Hippo—who thought that one up? What can we do for you?”

“For me? Brother, I got the goodies you crave. Send some strong backs down here.”

BLAM.

The grenade detonated on Tolbert’s left. Its crystal-like shrapnel tore one of the drivers to shreds. More hit Tolbert’s leg, knocking him to the ground.

THWOOSH…BAM!

The Bradley erupted into flames from an anti-armor projectile.

Tolbert, on the hard pavement of the Interstate, saw six hooded alien fighters—a commando unit, no doubt—emerge from the heavy brush on the far side of the highway. They rushed forward with their guns shooting.

The human drivers scrambled behind the trucks and returned fire with pistols. One panicked but lucky shot felled a commando.

Tolbert crawled under a supply truck and grabbed his radio.

“Jesus Christ! They were waiting for us!”

“Say again, who is this?”

“This is Hungry—screw it; this is Tolbert with the supplies. We’re getting ambushed here! Need help!”

“Roger that,” came a female voice. “Death from above.”

Tolbert glanced north and saw an Apache chopper rise from the Wyoming Valley river basin. It drifted across the skyline toward the mountainside highway.

He glanced around and realized only one of the drivers remained alive: a teenage boy dressed up like a soldier standing on the side of the road looking shell-shocked.

“Get out of here!” Tolbert yelled.

The shout shook the kid from his trance. He ran wildly toward the dense woods. Either the aliens did not see or did not care; the kid disappeared into the forest.

Tolbert propped himself against a truck tire and stayed hidden as he heard the enemy race frantically around the convoy, perhaps searching for him.

The thump-thump of helicopter blades grew louder.

Tolbert, emboldened by the arrival of air cover, peered around the front end of the truck in time to see the commandos disappear into the brush from whence they had come.

Shrapnel in his leg sent sharp pain from his knee to his neck, but he managed to stand.

He hobbled into the clear, waved to Nina’s approaching chopper, and pointed toward the brush. The Apache veered in that direction.

Tolbert noticed an open rear gate on one of the trucks. He limped over and surveyed the cargo inside. The crates of precious ammunition remained intact.

“Hold on a sec, what do we have here?”

A humming silver box with a flickering electronic display caught his eye.

“Oh shit.”

The silver boxes in the army trucks and under the Abrams exploded in a brilliant red flash, vaporizing the supplies, the tank, and Tolbert.

*

“Oh, now that’s just friggin’ great,” Jon Brewer stormed around the small clearing in knee-deep damp grass. “They sneak into our rear area, take out our supply column, blow the piss out of the Abrams, then get away without a scratch? Wow, just great.”

“Another convoy?” Shep floated the idea in a hushed tone so as to keep the conversation within the confines of the small meadow away from the ears of the front line defenders.

“There’s nothing left,” Trevor shared the grim news.

Jon said, “Wow, we’re in bad shape then. Some of the guys got pistols, hunting rifles, and shotguns. The army guys have carbines. There are few of the Redcoat and platypus rifles but they’re running dry. I don’t see how this is going to get things done.”

Shepherd said, “There has to be more than that.”

Brewer answered, “A couple of shoulder-fired anti-tank missiles, a grenade here and there, Johnny has got a few toys left and Stonewall’s guys got swords but…but…”

Sharp reports of gunfire blasted into the clearing.

“They’re coming again,” Shep stated the obvious.

The three jogged from the meadow, up a short rise, and approached the trenches and barricades of the second mountain. The cleared field of fire in front of the lines showed no sign of attackers, but the clap of shots reverberated through the dense woodland.

Reverend Johnny frantically dispatched groups to his left and right while K9s raced behind the battlements, yapping an alert.

“Hurry now! Run like the devil is biting at your ass!”

Johnny faced Trevor and told him, “The fiends are striking at our flanks. If not for the acute noses of our canine companions they would have overrun us on either end!”

Trevor translated and realized that the Grenadiers had sniffed out a sneak attack.

“Jon, take the right. Shep, take the left. Johnny, you keep hold right here.”

“Like the rock of Gibraltar!”

Trevor followed Shep toward the eastern flank. The roar of battle intensified.

The eastern edge of the summit ended in a sharp bluff that dropped to a valley of rocks. The human lines anchored against that precipice. The Vikings stormed toward them.

Bullets answered but not in a quantity equal to the task. The Vikings made it half way across the clearing and appeared poised to overrun the position. If they did, the aliens could sweep into the rear area and effectively strangle the ragtag army.

“Keep shooting! Keep shooting!”

Trevor followed the advice Shepherd yelled to the defenders. He leaned against a Maple tree and fired a trio of shots into the approaching force. The added bullets from his gun seemed little more than extra pebbles thrown into a tidal surge.

Something whizzed near his head. A chunk of bark exploded from the tree. Trevor dropped to the ground pinned by heavy enemy fire that…suddenly…stopped.

A sound like a buzz saw played over a bullhorn filled his ears. Another sound followed almost immediately: A yell. No, a cheer.

Trevor pulled his head from the ground. The forward ranks of the enemy army lay in ruins in the open field.

A shadow flashed over those bodies.

Two metallic birds of prey swept over the killing ground, cannons dealing destruction to anything that dared move in the open.

Trevor raced forward and pumped his fist at the enemy then toward the choppers.

That’s my girl!

Exuberance turned to horror.

Two contrails streaked from the southern side of the field. The rockets at the front of those contrails slammed into Bragg’s helicopter and then Nina’s. The former banked right and headed northwest, smoke blowing from its side. The latter fell fast as its rear rotor shattered.

He watched helplessly as Nina’s chopper descended toward the killing ground between the lines. A rumble in the earth announced the crash and a ball of smoke curled to the heavens.

Trevor ran. As he pushed through the forest, his radio broadcast chatter between commanders: “We’ve got a chopper down on the highway. Stonewall, check it out.”

“I am already en route.”

“Oh Christ! Second chopper went down in the field. Shit, that’s Nina. Who’s over there?”

“I can see her. Bird’s on fire. Someone better get over there before they do!”

Trevor’s legs drove like pistons. Low hanging branches and early summer brush scraped against his bare arms and cheeks.

“Bragg is okay, but his chopper is done. How’s Nina?”

“They’re right on her! Someone better move! Now!”

The ball of smoke where her Apache had fallen grew larger as he ran closer. Soon he heard an exchange of gunfire and smelled the oily scent of burning aviation fuel.

Trevor stopped on the human side of the killing zone. Ahead of him in a field of cut brush lay the wreckage of Nina’s attack helicopter. The entire rear third of the machine had crumpled, the cockpit torn open. Viking warriors braved human fire to inspect the wreck.

“Trevor.”

He turned to the sound of her voice.

Nina, dressed in a green flight suit and wearing patches of black soot on her face, stood behind friendly lines.

“You—you’re okay?”

All the air leapt from his lungs. He placed both hands on his knees.

“I’m okay. Thanks to this guy.”

Evan stood next to her, a rifle in hand.

“Evan?” Trevor tried to grasp what had happened. “You pulled her out of there?”

Trevor realized the surprise in his tone probably insulted Godfrey, so he stood straighter and spoke in a firm voice, “Well done, Evan.”

Godfrey shrugged and walked away.

*

The Vikings came again a half-hour later, but not as aggressively. Instead of charging toward the battlements, they took position on their side of the killing ground and fired bursts.

A Viking or two fell, so did a human or two.

That low-intensity attack lasted twenty minutes before the invaders withdrew.

Early in the afternoon the aliens did the same, this time sending raiders toward the defenses but they quickly retreated after drawing fire.

The Vikings lobbed their strange artillery shells against the human fortifications, but the thick cover of the trees smothered the effect. Human mortar shells proved equally ineffective.

More attacks came mid and late afternoon.

Trevor, Shep, and Brewer hurried forces from place to place in anticipation of a heavy assault that never materialized; only mild skirmishes.

After another meager attack, Shep observed, “Seems to me they’re bleedin’ us dry.”

Trevor and Brewer stood alongside him under a sagging Maple tree. From there they watched Viking scouts fire potshots before backing off.

Brewer agreed, “Wow, yeah, they took out that supply convoy now they’re making us waste all our ammo.”

Shepherd asked, “So what we gunna do about it?”

Trevor studied the ground ahead: a cleared killing zone gently sloping to the south into the woods where the aliens mustered.

Behind him, more woods followed by another slope as mountain number two descended northward into a small, thin valley of golden grass on either side of a shallow stream. On the far side of that stream, mountain number three rose on a densely forested and rocky hillside. Atop that mountain waited the last line of trenches and barricades.

“I have an idea,” Trevor told them. “Let’s run away.”

*

“Here they come…steady…steady,” Trevor encouraged the troops manning the bulwarks.

A first, then a second, then a storm of alien shots sprayed toward the emplacements. Human rifles answered the challenge but that answer lacked the fury of previous exchanges.

Jon Brewer’s voice came over Trevor’s radio: “They’re hitting us here, too. This is it.”

Trevor nodded to himself as he watched a wave of Viking attackers flow into and across the open ground. The enemy’s ponchos morphed from gray to a near honey-color as they crossed the killing zone under the golden rays of an evening sun.

Stone glanced at the handful of men and women lining the trenches. Most of those who had volunteered to stay behind were pre-doomsday soldiers but a few wore tattered civilian clothes instead of army-issued fatigues.

The balance of his force had already retreated to the last mountain. He knew for his plan to have maximum effect, the enemy needed to remain oblivious to this fact.

“Shep,” Trevor transmitted. “What about you?”

Shepherd’s radioed reply came with a melody of gunshots playing as background music.

“Oh yeah, they’re coming. I reckon the whole bunch of em’ are—hey! Hold fast! Gotta go Trev, waitin’ on your order.”

Alien pellets bounced off the tree limbs above Trevor’s head. Scattered rifle and pistol rounds blasted a reply.

A Viking soldier clutched his chest and fell to the ground. His comrades swarmed around the body with a determination Trevor had not seen in the previous skirmishes that day.

Yes. This is it.

A scream grabbed his attention.

A chubby woman wearing a plaid shirt stumbled from behind a cut tree that served as a barricade. She clutched her right eye with one hand while a hunting rifle dangled absently from the other. Blood poured from the wound as she staggered and screamed. Confused and disorientated, she accidentally wobbled forward into the field. Before anyone could retrieve her, Viking slugs finished the job.

When they reached the halfway point in their march across the tree stumps and chopped brush, the Vikings hollered and sprinted forward.

Trevor raised his radio and ordered, “Fall back! Fall back!”

The enemy intensified their fire as they closed for the kill. One, two, three and more of the defenders took hits first in the front then in their backs as they turned.

Stone lobbed a grenade into the vanguard of his foe. The detonation knocked two of the warriors to the ground but the rest of the mob paid the blast no mind.

“Go! Go! Go!” he encouraged his followers as they withdrew from the ramparts.

Trevor waited as long as he dare, but when the aliens climbed the downed trees and piled rocks serving as the second line of defense, he could wait no more. He joined the flight to the rear; racing alongside his soldiers just as he knew Shep and Jon raced alongside the men and women who manned the flanks.

Not satisfied with merely overrunning the position, the aliens pursued.

The dense forest provided some cover, but more soldiers fell victim to the attackers. Trevor and the others kept running, leaving behind the injured and their pleads for help.

The retreating mob crested the hill and then stumbled and hopped down the other side. Thick forest gave way to brush and then tall grass as the descent smoothed to a gentler grade.

The Vikings still pursued, closing the gap between predators and prey.

“Faster! Faster!”

Trevor saw one middle-aged man stumble and roll. A sickening crack from his leg meant he would not get up again.

A woman on his right staggered but found her balance; a soldier to his left leapt over a boulder only to be hit square in the back by an alien round.

The brush thinned into a field of grass. The mountainside became a small valley. Human feet splashed through the shallow stream there. The plop and ping of projectiles left no doubt the pursuers remained close.

Trevor shouted encouragement as he reached the northern bank where another grassy slope beckoned. His legs wobbled wearily. Could he possibly climb fast enough to escape?

Despite his fatigue, he rallied his troops forward. Patches of dirt burst into the air as enemy slugs hit the slope ahead.

The humans chugged up the mountain, trying to reach the relative cover of the tree line.

More screams as slower runners were thinned from the retreating ranks.

Trevor heard the splash of Viking boots in the stream. He heard their cry…

No, not their cry.

WOH-WHO-EY!…WOH-WHO-EY!

Stonewall’s brigades slammed into the Viking front on both flanks like a vice. The cavalry bore down on the foot soldiers caught in the wide-open terrain of the small valley. While only three dozen in number, the sudden appearance of the imposing mounted soldiers and their devilish rebel yell decapitated the alien offensive.

Horse hoofs splashed through the stream. Carbines fired and swords swung. The bones of trampled aliens snapped under the strong legs of galloping steeds. Stonewall himself swooped in and lopped off a poncho’d head.

The tip of the aliens’ spear lost cohesion and splintered into small groups while the mass of the Viking force—their confidence battered— halted their charge.

Stonewall holstered his sword and pulled a revolver. He squeezed off shot after shot as he maneuvered his ride halfway up the slope in pursuit of fleeing aliens. The gallant General cornered another foe against a tree, raised his gun, and…click.

“Oh dear heavens…”

The Viking confidently raised his rifle for an easy kill.

THWUMP.

A thrown knife plunged into the chest of the enemy fighter who groaned and fell.

Stonewall turned to see Kristy Kaufman on horseback.

“Why Miss Kaufman, I do believe I’m in your debt.”

“That’s Ms.”

He bowed then surveyed his handiwork: dozens of Vikings lay dead in the valley with several more squirming and moaning as their life bled out. A swarm of K9s hastened their end.

“Gave them a bloody nose, we did,” Kristy cheered as she and the General returned toward friendly lines. “They’ll think twice before hitting us again.”

“Hmm…I wish I shared your optimism. I fear our foes have a keen grasp of combat. This is but a temporary setback. Indeed, they will blame their losses on their overabundance of enthusiasm. When the smoke clears, they will realize they still hold all the advantages.”

Stonewall gazed toward the top of the densely wooded hill. The last hill.

“Our mounts will be of little use now. I fear this will become a bloody mess soon.”

“We’ll find a way, General.”

McAllister glanced at the empty pistol in his hand.

“I hope whatever ‘way’ we find is not overly dependent on bullets.”

*

Trevor passed his ‘soldiers’ en route to a hastily constructed command tent. He listened as he moved and heard groans of pain, forlorn sobs, and snippets of conversations.

“…yeah, and a year ago I was at a company golf outing in Myrtle Beach, now look at me—toting a shotgun and shooting aliens. Ain’t that some kind of shit?”

“I can’t believe he’s gone. I saw him. He was running and they shot him in the back…”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! I don’t want to be calm, goddamnit!”

“Shhh…listen…me and a couple of the others are going to sneak off before morning.”

He tried to block it out but he could not block out the truth of their situation.

“One clip here.”

“Need pistol ammo! Anyone got any?”

“A twenty-two? That’s all I got left to fight with is a friggin’ twenty-two?”

Trevor pushed through the flaps of the tent and walked in on Stonewall reporting a best guess to Nina, Shep, Brewer, Prescott, and the Reverend: “I believe that last action by the stream dwindled the enemy’s numbers so that they no longer hold a significant numerical advantage.”

Brewer lamented, “That’s great, but as it stands, we’ve got about five seconds of ammo left once they decide to come up here.”

Reverend Johnny added, “I fear even with adequate caches of munitions we would be no match for this lot in our current state. Doom circles this camp like a vulture.”

Before Trevor could say a word, a new voice joined the discussion as Benny Duda stuck his head through the canvas flaps of the tent.

“Um, Mr. Stone, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”

Stone waved his hand in annoyance, “Well, send him in.”

“I don’t think you want me to do that.”

Jerry Shepherd cocked an eye and asked, “Why? Who is it?”

“It’s one of them.”

*

Trevor Stone followed the alien messenger on a return trip to the top of the second mountain. He had accepted the invitation over the animated objections of his Generals. Indeed, Johnny offered enough synonyms for treachery to fill a thesaurus.

Nevertheless, Trevor felt he had no choice. At the very least, the cease-fire allowed his troops to rest. If the aliens killed him, he would merely die a few hours before the others.

Stone followed his guide to a canvass structure surprisingly similar in material and design to his own command tent. Around that tent loitered poncho-wearing guards as well as two elephant-sized lizards loaded with packs.

The messenger pulled a string; the loosely hanging door rolled open. A soft yellow light glowed from within.

Trevor sighed and entered.

Three of the puffy-cheeked aliens waited there, dressed in humble brown cloth uniforms.

One of them stood a pace in front of the others. He stood out even more by way of his eyes: instead of two green eyes like the others, this leader had one green and one hazel, giving the otherwise docile-looking creature an intimidating glare.

Small, lighted orbs flickered from the corners. An oval table made from a plastic-like substance sat against one wall, and long scrolls of paper cluttered a circular storage rack.

The enemy leader held a small microphone-like translator to his mouth. His lips moved as he spoke into the device. A half-second delay separated the sweet-flowing dialect of the invader from the synthesized English translation.

“I welcome you, noble leader of my brave opponents. You may address me as Fromm, Force Commander.”

One of the officers handed a similar device to Trevor. He rolled it in his hand, peered closely at its mesh cover, and then spoke. His English words morphed into a computerized translation of the alien language: “Um…I accepted your invitation despite the risk. I wanted to—”

“There is no risk.” Trevor’s words struck a cord of annoyance with Fromm and his officers. “My people honor the sanctity of parlay.”

Before the translator spoke ‘parlay,’ Trevor heard the raw alien word. It sounded something akin to swashloo.

“We pledge to protect you while you are here at our invitation.”

An honorable people.

Trevor spoke slowly so the device could accurately translate his words.

“Why have you come to my world?”

“That is a question greater than this conversation. The truth is that we are here. The truth is that we have been granted rights to parts of this world. This is not a matter for discussion.”

Trevor wanted to ask more. What did that mean, rights? Was the Earth to be parceled to various aliens the way North America had been divided among the European powers hundreds of years ago? Was humanity the equivalent of the Native Americans of that time?

Apparently, such questions would have to wait.

“Then why have you brought me here?”

Fromm explained, “Your forces are defeated. Your supplies are low; your numbers have dwindled. It is a custom among my people to respect our enemies when they have exhibited the type of cunning and bravery your people have shown, despite an untenable position. Therefore, we offer to accept your surrender and provide your followers with a quick, pain-free death.”

Trevor pinched his nose.

“Let me get this straight. You think we should just give up and let you execute us?”

“Dying on the battlefield can be a miserable death. I am offering your people the dignity of a painless end to their lives. It is our way of honoring the gallantry of your fighters.”

Stone shook his head. His eyes narrowed. The free hand not holding the translating device jabbed a finger toward the enemy commander.

“Let me tell you our way. We fight. We fight for our lives and our world. We do not walk silently to our deaths. Our race thrives on pain. The pain of being born. The pain of living. The pain of losing…of losing things and people we care about. It’s the nature of our existence. You cannot cower us with the threat of pain. You only stiffen our resolve. My advice to you is to withdraw as fast as you can.”

Trevor failed to intimidate his counterpart but Fromm’s expression of tightly pressed lips and several long blinks suggested disappointment.

“I am surprised you lack the wisdom to accept my offer. I wonder how is it you became the Force Commander of your people?”

“I have no fucking idea whatsoever.”

*

The third and last day of the Battle of Five Armies dawned.

Not long after sunrise Trevor, having returned unmolested to his own lines the night before, received reports of mustering enemy forces.

He sat next to Nina in the cool shade of the woods as she cleaned her rifle and he searched for the thousandth time for a plan.

If they withdrew, the Vikings would pursue, catching them in the midst of retreat or—if they dared move into the open—blasting them with their deadly catapults. These aliens meant to finish the job, on the mountain or otherwise.

If they stayed, the Vikings would attack the fortifications in force. Defending those lines, despite a lack of ammunition, appeared the best alternative on a short list of bad options.

“Well, rifle is all clean. Too bad I’ve only got five shots.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek. Trevor wondered if she welcomed the looming battle, despite the desperate odds. Perhaps she liked the idea of dying with her memories intact more than living without them.

Trevor shook such thoughts away. He could not afford daydreams of love, not when so much rode on the minutes ahead.

Brewer marched off to survey the west flank; Shep made for the eastern side. Reverend Johnny, in the meantime, approached Trevor. The big man carried his flamethrower.

“Blasted thing is out of fuel,” it clanged as he threw it behind a tree. Before Trevor could react, Johnny produced a baseball bat. “But I have a back up plan, praise the Lord.”

“Not bad, Rev,” Nina smirked.

“On another topic, despite my dire predictions it appears that less than a dozen of our number slipped away in the darkness last night. I am sure the All Mighty will harshly judge their cowardice, but he has blessed the remainder of our ranks with the courage to stand fast.”

“I fear, Rev, that most of our army has simply accepted defeat; they’re too tired to run.”

They watched Stonewall maneuver through the woods on horseback. The thick tree roots presented stumbling blocks for horse hoofs and the low hanging branches swiped at his head.

Stonewall grunted in frustration, dismounted, tied the horse to a branch, and walked to the three. Trevor stood to great him.

The General in the confederate officer’s uniform came to perfect attention, saluted, and announced, “It is my unfortunate duty to inform you that the enemy is on the march. I have observed them descending their mountain toward the valley that separates our positions. No doubt they will be joining us shortly.”

Trevor closed his eyes.

So this is it. This is where humanity makes its last stand.

Nina asked, “How many of them?”

“Hmm? Oh, well, all of them, my dear. Close to two hundred.”

Nina sounded unduly optimistic as she noted, “Look, thanks to that pasting you gave them in the valley yesterday I figure they’re hitting us with a lot less than they would have.”

Stonewall appreciated the mention but saddened to say that, “While Miss Forest speaks the truth, I fear we may not have two hundred bullets among us.”

Trevor’s frustration surfaced. He turned and pounded a fist into a tree.

“Damn it. We were so close!”

Nina rubbed his shoulder and consoled, “You did everything you could.”

“Indeed,” Reverend Johnny shared the moment. “Our maneuver to rest the initiative from the aliens on all fronts gave us a prayer of hope.”

Trevor thought about that decision. Stonewall had mentioned the battle of Gettysburg and how the Union army occupied the high ground on the first day. That move proved decisive. Unfortunately, not this time. This time…

His legs wobbled; his head spun.

Trevor closed his eyes and tasted the bitter scent of gunpowder fired more than a century before. He heard soldiers pleading for ammunition that would not come. He heard the battle cry of an enemy climbing a mountain one last time to finish a line of defenders who had survived wave after wave of previous attacks.

His legs steadied. His mind stopped spinning.

Trevor opened his eyes and faced his friends who eyed him suspiciously.

“Stonewall, tell me about Little Round Top.”

“Pardon me, Sir? Did you say ‘Little Round Top’?”

“The second day at Gettysburg. Joshua Chamberlain and the 20th Maine were in a predicament similar to ours’. What did he do?”

After a moment of reflection, General McAllister smiled.

“They did something very foolish, Sir.”

*

Trevor called in the far-flung ranks of his lines, gathered his officers, and shared his plan. Most stood and listened vacantly. Trevor did not know if that vacancy came because they could not believe the audacity of his plan, or if they were too far gone to hear.

The plan did not take much explaining. It was simple. And brutal.

He finished and surveyed his troops.

Troops?

The sorry survivors formed a thick circle among the trees and makeshift fortifications. Shopkeepers and bus drivers and restaurant managers dressed in a hodgepodge of jeans and tshirts, boots and tennis shoes, brandishing hunting rifles and pistols, clubs and knives. Even the professional soldiers left over from Prescott’s band no longer stood strong and confident.

“You must all understand it ends now. There is no retreat and if we stay here, we will be overwhelmed. There is only one alternative: forward.”

The collection of vacant eyes widened as if to suggest that while they had followed Trevor Stone so far, they might not be ready to follow him any further.

“I’d rather die with my hands on the enemy’s throat then cower behind a wall. I will show that enemy the face of his nightmares. He has come to my world and killed my people. He will see the FURY in my eyes.”

A voice of despair cried out, “We have no more bullets!”

“I DON’T NEED BULLETS!”

Trevor’s bellow came from somewhere deep inside his person. The part, he figured, where the Old Man had found his killer.

“For thousands of years we have fought each other. For what? To prepare us for this day! The battlegrounds of Troy and Gallipoli; of Tarawa and Trafalgar; all to prepare us for now. The poets have written of our warlike nature for a reason: To be VICTORIOUS HERE.”

Trevor glanced at Nina. She stood still but he could see every muscle in her body tighten in anticipation of the fight to come.

He returned his attention to his ‘army’.

“It is time to decide. WILL YOU FIGHT?”

A few vacant eyes glowed alive. Isolated murmurs of ‘yes’ danced through the crowd.

“For our slaughtered families…for the enslaved children …for your lost lovers and murdered brothers…you are DEMONS waiting to be set loose.”

More eyes filled with life. Heads nodded in approval.

“Think of all you lost. Think of what they have taken from you. Look at what they have made us! Who took our homes? Who killed our children? They are guilty! All of them! And they expect us to roll over and die? I say NO! They will take NOTHING MORE FROM ME!”

The words raced from his lips and he felt the power. It surprised Trevor that he could find the nerves to touch, the buttons to push. As he watched, he saw that ragtag army change into a mob of murderers.

Yes, maybe that was his gift. He could turn people into killers. Is that what the Old Man saw in him?

It did not matter. The ends, Trevor now realized, justified the means. He would turn them into barbarians if he needed to for it was his charge to save mankind in the name of all who had died in the flames of Armageddon.

“Unleash your hate now and…and…AND SLAUGHTER THE ENEMY! LET THIS BE THEIR GRAVEYARD! MAKE THIS THE DAY THE TIDE TURNED AND MAN’S VENGEANCE WAS DELIVERED TO THE INVADERS!”

Clenched fists and raised rifles pumped in the air.

Woody “Bear” Ross stepped forward.

“Three cheers for Trevor Stone!”

“HOO-RAH! HOO-RAH! HOO-RAH!”

Trevor shouted: “I’M TIRED OF WAITING FOR THOSE SONS-A-BITCHES! LET’S GO AND KICK THEIR ASS OFF OUR WORLD! NO MERCY! KILL THEM ALL! EVERY LAST FUCKING ONE OF THEM!”

The soldiers—policemen and garbage collectors, salesmen and teachers—roared in anger. Trevor had conjured the faces of dead friends, dead brothers and sisters, moms and dads, sons and daughters. They remembered living under the yoke of slavery and running in terror from ghastly creatures.

No more hiding. No more running. A thousand wrongs ached for vengeance.

“Sir, you may need this,” Stonewall handed one of his Civil War era swords to Trevor. “Now I am prepared to follow you straight to Hell.”

The weight of the blade felt good in Trevor’s hands. Natural.

Trevor sought out and locked eyes with Nina. He saw his lover there. He also saw a wolf.

“Nina…this is your moment. Seize it.”

She smiled a smile to chill the darkest heart.

Trevor raised his sword.

“CHARGE!”

Benny Duda played the corresponding melody on his trumpet. The mass poured from higher to lower, roaring across the open killing field and into the woods below.

So many nightmares had come to Earth. So many hideous beasts and terrible creatures.

They had made one mistake: they had awoken the most horrible of beasts. They had awoken the vengeance of mankind. The day of reckoning had come. Man would no longer run and hide. Man was coming after the nightmares. Hunting them.

The ground trembled as the human stampede practically fell down the hill and collided with the alien army amidst the trees and rocky ground of the mountainside.

The forward tier of the Viking force stopped, stunned into inaction by the brazenness of the assault. The enemy raised rifles but had little time to fire for Trevor’s legion smashed into them not as a cohesive military formation but as a murderous, savage mob.

A few quick pops of rifle fire echoed through the dense forest; an explosion sent a trio of poncho-clad soldiers flying. However, the weapons of modern battle were quickly discarded in favor of more barbaric means: knives and rifle butts and swords and fists and teeth and fingernails and anything that could wound and kill.

This was no genius tactical maneuver. It was a frenzied swarm. Barbaric.

Unexpected.

Trevor spent his last five pistol shots as he raced forward, and then swung his sword. It cut through ponchos easily.

Brewer strangled a Viking fighter with his bare hands. Shep fired shotgun blasts until out of shot, and then swung the gun like a club.

“At the wrath of the LORD of hosts the land quakes, and the people are like FUEL FOR FIRE; No man spares his brother, each DEVOURS the flesh of his neighbor,” boomed Revered Johnny as he swung his baseball bat with both hands.

Woody “Bear” Ross snapped the neck of one of the enemy. Cassy Simms held two pistols and fired and fired and fired while laughing hysterically.

The K9s bit and clawed, shredding disorientated Viking warriors into tatters.

Dustin McBride wrestled the gun off a foe then used it to pummel the creature to death.

“THAT’S ALL FOLKS!” Casey roared as he drove a bayonet into one of the poncho-wearing villains.

Stonewall joined the fray, skewering an enemy through the chest.

The Vikings returned fire in a chaotic fashion. Their columns had been prepared to thrust at a static defensive line, not repel a horde. They marched toward the mountaintop expecting to find a defeated, demoralized enemy’ not maddened demons at close quarters.

For her part, Nina killed with precision.

While still jogging down the slope, she raised her M4 and squeezed the trigger once. A single bullet killed a single enemy.

She darted to her left as a pellet buzzed past her head, then back to her right to dodge another. Her weapon rose. Her eye found the mark. The trigger pulled. A bullet pierced a goggle on her opponent.

She raced forward again. Two Vikings—staggering backward in the face of the onslaught—noticed her approach. Their magnetic rifles discharged. She spun and jumped and rolled behind an Oak. The unfriendly rounds tore away tree bark.

Nina popped out on one knee, fired her third shot and with it killed a third alien; the gray and black colored poncho rolled lifelessly away.

The other enemy fired with shaky hands. His shots missed high. She launched her fourth of five bullets. It missed. The alien stepped behind the tree in search of cover.

Nina immediately took to her feet and sprinted around the other side of that tree. The sound of raging battle filling the forest hid the crunches of her feet on dried twigs and leaves. She surprised the alien from behind, placing the last of her five bullets into his skull at point blank range. The top of the poncho exploded into mess.

She pulled the extraterrestrial’s rifle from his dead hands and gazed at its slender, plain barrel and the oddly shaped firing mechanism. She did not understand the weapon’s rate of fire, how to clean it, or even how to reload it. Nonetheless, she understood triggers well enough. She understood barrels.

The natural-born soldier raised the strange rifle and fired at the nearest enemy fighter. She felt no recoil, only a small vibration. No smoke discharged. No casing ejected. Yet the result was familiar: one of her enemies crumpled to the ground.

Nina charged again, further down the slope, hunting for her next victim. Her eyes sorted through the churning chaos of intertwined combatants and gave it order. She lived for the fight. Now she fought not because it was all she knew, but because she had so much to fight for. She fought for the right to live. She fought for the love she felt for Trevor. She fought for her people, not as an outcast warrior but as one with them.

Nina waded into the battle knowing that when the alien gun ran dry, she could turn to her knife and should that break she would use her bare hands.

Trevor led the mob of enraged humanity and chased the Vikings not only down the slope, not only over the stream and fields of the valley below, but also back up the second mountain.

The aliens ran in terror from the devils that pursued. They screamed in horror as they realized how horrid the monsters they had unleashed. They cried with fatal regret that they had dared come to this planet of death.

The Vikings ran faster and more fearful than any man had run from any of the nightmares that had descended upon that world.

They reached the top of the hill.

Fromm stepped from behind a tree and took aim at Trevor.

Trevor threw his sword. It pierced the Force Commander’s neck.

The remaining Viking warriors—some pleading in an alien language for their lives—were slaughtered without mercy. Their blood filled puddles across the mountain.

Trevor grabbed the dying body of Fromm and carried it on top of a red rock cropping at the crown of the mountain. His rage burned. His followers gathered.

Trevor found the strength of all mankind. He lifted the commander skyward above his head as the alien gurgled blood and clutched at air.

“IS THIS THE BEST YOU CAN DO? IS THIS ALL THERE IS?”

He tossed the dead body to the ground. It thudded and rolled off.

Trevor raised his arms toward the summer sky. He shook his fists at the mysterious forces of the universe that had orchestrated Armageddon. He hollered a barbaric roar. A roar that echoed from the mountain and over the treetops and across the land.

The aliens and creatures from other worlds that heard that roar trembled.

Secrets

Trevor stood on the balcony and watched as the convoy of Humvees, SUVs and one Bradley left the estate. He worked his radio to talk to the man in charge of the expedition.

“How long will it take to get there?”

Stonewall answered, “We will be exercising abundant caution, but I anticipate our arrival sometime later this afternoon.”

How much had changed since Jon’s expedition to Allentown last autumn! This time, after so many battles, Stonewall felt confident enough to travel the turnpike via motor vehicles, as opposed to slinking across the countryside on horseback.

The convoy included Reverend Johnny and it aimed to reach The Order’s abandoned facility, secure it, and confirm the existence of the correct enzyme. If all went well, Trevor and Nina would fly to Allentown in the morning and it would be done. The memories would be purged. The woman he loved would cease to exist.

And Trevor Stone would go on leading his crusade.

He walked from the balcony into the empty Command Center where maps and binders called for his attention.

Ten days had past since the Battle of Five Armies.

Despite the victory, their casualties had been many. So many dead, many more wounded. Yet, they would recover. Trevor knew that. In the meantime, he would need to bide his time, restock ammunition, find more refugees, birth more Grenadiers, and focus on basics.

Eventually, the war would start anew. More battles. More death. More killing.

All part of his role to play, his path to walk…alone.

*

Lori Brewer—carrying seven and a half months worth of baby—wobbled toward the barn. According to Dr. Maple’s ultrasounds, she carried a girl. The first child of the new world.

Nevertheless, not even pregnancy could keep Lori from doing her work, so she wobbled toward the barn carrying a knapsack stuffed with bandages and medicine.

The animals surrounded her, jumping and fidgeting excitedly.

“Have we been good little doggies?”

Lori patted heads until she came to Seth, a German Shepherd, with shrapnel in his haunch. His bandages needed to be changed. Lori spent several minutes cleaning the wound and re-dressing it. Seth flinched a little but he flinched less with each day.

Her task complete, Lori struggled to stand. A strong arm reached in and helped her up. That armed belonged to Nina Forest.

“Oh, hey. Thanks. I don’t get around like I used to.”

“Yeah,” Nina gently tapped Lori’s belly. “With that big bowling ball you’re carryin’.”

Lori smiled but said nothing. An awkward silence persisted for several seconds until Nina broke it with the bad news: “Tomorrow.”

Lori tried to find something to say. “Oh, well, I, um, well…”

“I guess there are some words you’re not good with, huh?” Nina lightened her words with a tiny smile as she finished, “Like ‘goodbye’.”

Lori shook her head, saying, “No, no, it’s not goodbye. You’ll be back. You just got to get that thing out of your head.”

“It’s goodbye.”

Lori wanted to walk away from the conversation. It turned out there were a few things she did not like to tackle head on.

“Why are you saying that? You’ll be back by tomorrow evening.”

“The person I am now won’t exist anymore.”

“Allriiighty then, so what, you’ll be a six foot red head? Will your name change? You gunna have green eyes? No. You’ll be back.”

Nina tried to explain as much to herself as to Lori.

“My memories of everything…everything since the crash will be gone. All those experiences. I won’t remember any of it. Not meeting you or Trevor or everyone else. Not all we’ve gone through since then. Things that have…have changed me.”

“But you’ll still be you!”

“I can’t be. I won’t be. I’ll lose everything that made me…that changed me…since then. All the times you were a nosey pain in my ass,” she smiled. “Shep…Shep being, being disappointed in me that day…feeling guilty about what I did to Trevor. I mean, who would you be if you had never met Jon? Or if you had never known Richard the car salesman.”

Lori cast her eyes to the ground.

Nina went on: “I just wanted to say…I just want to tell you thanks for being my friend. I know what that means now. Just that, well, I’m going to forget it tomorrow.”

Lori reached over and gave Nina a hug.

“This sucks. You know that? It sucks.”

“I know. Listen to me; Trevor is going to need you. He’s going to need his friends.”

“But—”

“No, listen. It’s going to be tough for him. Not just tomorrow or the day after that. The months and years after that. You know he’s a good man. You also know he’s in a tough spot. I’m just saying, don’t let him be too alone.”

Lori did not understand what Nina meant. Certainly Trevor would try and win Nina again. How could he not?

Nina changed the subject: “So you’re thinking a girl, huh?”

Lori wiped a tear away, “Yeah. I mean, yes.”

“Pick any names yet?”

“Catherine.”

“Catherine. Catherine Brewer. Has a nice ring.”

“Yes,” Lori agreed. “Yes it does.”

Nina smiled, put a hand on Lori’s shoulder, and then walked away.

Lori thought to herself, Catherine Nina Brewer.

That has an even better ring.

*

“Do you understand?” Trevor asked Jon Brewer.

He did not understand. He did not get it.

“I thought you loved her. Was I wrong?”

“I do, damn it. Don’t make this any harder.”

“I don’t get it, Trevor. Why?”

They stood together in the empty living room in the estate.

“Listen to me. You’re not dumb, Jon. You know there’s a lot of crazy shit at work in…in ‘all this’. Right? Things aren’t all straight up and forward, right?”

Jon nodded.

It had been tough enough to deal with the idea of alien monsters and armies invading the Earth, let alone Trevor Stone’s strange ability to command dogs and summon knowledge he should not have. Accepting Trevor’s post-Armageddon abilities without giving them much consideration always seemed the easiest route. Yet there could be no denying that Jon’s friend—the one-time car salesman—had a direct line to forces of some greater magnitude.

“This is killing me, do you understand?” Trev closed his eyes and clenched his fists. “But this is how it has to be. If not, then everything could unravel. That’s not my choice. Do you hear me? But this is how it has to be.”

Jon repeated Trevor’s strangest directive to date: “No one is ever to tell Nina about the relationship you two had. It is never to be spoken of. It never happened.”

“And if they do?”

“Treason,” Jon spoke the ugly tasting word.

“Your wife is going to be a hard sell on this.”

“Shep may be harder. He said he never saw Nina as happy as she was with you.”

Trevor raised a hand.

“Stop. Just stop. I can’t hear that now. It’s done. It’s over. Tomorrow is a new day.”

Jon saw the anguish in his friend. He did not know why things had to be like this; he could not understand it. What grand plan did this serve?

He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” Trevor said.

“Wow, yeah we have.”

“We have much farther to go. Much, much farther.”

*

The last night arrived. Trevor and Nina had the mansion to themselves

Shep had left for an all night poker game and the Brewers found a new home on the far side of the lake. Dante, in the meantime, did not say where he went but Trevor suspected he stayed with Kristy Kaufman for the night.

Trevor had secured a couple of prime cuts of beef, fresh vegetables, and a bottle of wine.

After dinner, they sat in the living room and dreamt of a normal world for themselves. A world without Armageddon.

“And where would we have lived?” Trevor asked.

“Hmmm,” she smiled. “Well, Philly of course.”

“Because that’s where you worked?”

“Well, I mean, I was a cop you were—”

“A car salesman. I know, I know.”

“Philly is a great place. Lots of things to do. We could go to the zoo. Catch a Phillies game. Stroll through the museum.”

“Now that’s a funny image,” he laughed. “You and I, strolling through the zoo. After all we’ve seen I think a couple of giraffes would be kind of anti-climatic.”

“This is a different world,” Nina whispered. “A world where I’m not a soldier, and you’re not a leader. It’s a dream world. We’re we could just be together. No responsibilities.”

He put his hand on her cheek.

“That’s a lovely world. A wonderful dream.”

She wrung her hands.

“And after tomorrow, you get to dream it. I won’t remember enough to want to dream.”

“Memories make us who we are. Take them away, and you change the person. But I’ll still…I’ll still…”

“Don’t say it. You won’t like me at all. Promise me; promise me you’ll try. Promise me that you’ll try to make me remember the dream.”

“I promise.”

They both knew he lied. A lovely lie, nonetheless.

Trevor pulled the necklace holding his secret key from around his neck.

“When did you get that?”

“I always wear it. It’s always with me.”

“What? How come I’ve never seen it before?”

“Because it’s my key. No one else’s. Come with me. I want to show you something.”

He led her to the basement.

“I think you need to know something about me. About me and, and ‘all this’.”

They followed the stairs into the basement. The armory door stood locked. The plasma screen TV off, the bar dusty and on the pool table sat quiet, a full rack waiting to be broke.

He maneuvered her toward the small door under the stairs.

“Trevor,” she hesitated. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I don’t want to have secrets from you. I want you to know it all.”

Nina took a deep breath and kissed his cheek.

“Okay then. Show me.”

He opened the door and clicked on a solitary bulb that shined on a dingy little chamber surrounding a utility cabinet and a hot water heater. Trevor slid that cabinet to the side, revealing a small gray door.

Stone slipped the key from the necklace into the lock. It clicked. He grabbed the iron knob and turned it, eliciting a squeak. The wooden door opened to a dark entrance.

He took her by the hand and they carefully followed a tight stairway down.

Nina heard a low hum in the air that grew louder as they descended into a dimly lit space.

No stone, no concrete, only walls of earth. Old tree roots poked in from the ceiling.

“Where are we, Trevor?”

“Now that’s a good question. I suppose we’re under the mansion.”

“You suppose? Where else could we be?”

Trevor walked to a plain wooden table. An oil lamp and a pack of matches waited there.

“I suppose we could be…somewhere else. I honestly don’t know. I do know there’s nothing to be afraid of. Do you trust me?”

She nodded.

He lit the oil lamp. The soft glow of the flame bounced off the dirt walls.

“Look at this.”

At the far end of the room sat an old wood and iron chest. Trevor walked to that chest. Nina stood a pace behind.

He reached over and, with two hands, pulled open the heavy lid. As it opened, a blue/gray light streamed out from inside, first in streaks then as a glow.

Trevor stepped back. Nina stepped forward.

She raised her hand to shield her eyes as the glow rose out from the box like a balloon lazily drifting into the air.

Nina blinked rapidly as her pupils adjusted to the sudden influx of light. After a few seconds, she dropped her hand and stared at the object.

A sphere of a kind. She guessed it slightly larger than a basketball. The surface appeared made of a clear membrane that fluttered as if containing liquid. The light came not from that surface, but from an object inside.

Nina narrowed her eyes and leaned closer to the ball hovering above the open trunk.

“Not too close. It can be overpowering.”

“What is this? What is inside of it?”

Here eyes separated light from substance until the object inside the sphere took shape in her mind. She recognized the twisting parallel lines and ladder-like rungs between. She recognized them from science class, the Discovery Channel, and posters at the FBI crime lab.

A double helix. DNA.

Trevor confessed, “How can I fly an Apache helicopter? How can I shoot so well? How come I know tactical hand signals? I mean, c’mon, I sold cars, remember?”

Nina concluded, “So this is where you get it all from? This is how you ‘pick it up’?”

“That’s right. I have to come down once and a while and recharge. It’s sort of like a library. I can only read so much at any one time. It’s not complete. There’s a lot of shit not in there. I can’t do much more than basic first aid; could never be a surgeon or anything like that. It was a gift to me. But a gift with limits.”

“It’s human DNA.”

“The genetic memories of humanity. Like I said, not all the memories. Just a shit load of em’. I could fly that Apache because there are memories in here from a pilot from the Gulf War. Memories are also in there from engineers and scientists and generals who won great victories.”

She stared at the beautiful ball.

“Amazing.”

“One thing that I don’t get, though,” he scratched his chin. “This is how I know how to fly Eagles. I shouldn’t know that. There shouldn’t be non-human memories, right? But the flight controls and all of it came to me from here.”

“This is…this is beautiful.”

His voice grew deeper, softer. She thought she heard regret in his tone but soon realized that she really heard embarrassment.

“And that’s how I know that memories are what make us who we are. I know because Richard Stone would not have survived in this world without this gift. The memories of great victories or how to rig generators or hunt game; all of that gave me confidence and strength.”

She turned and faced him, her face slightly askew, puzzled by his words.

He made a finer point: “I’m a cheat. Without this, I’m nothing but a car salesman, and not a very good one, either. All the memories this thing has given me…and the skills; that’s why I’m a leader. Not because I’m brave or smart, because other people were brave and smart and now I’m standing on their shoulders. I’m a fraud, Nina.”

Nina grabbed his face with both hands and pushed her lips against his. When she finished, she pulled away and spoke her mind.

“Information, Trevor. That’s all. How to do things, what worked in the past…that’s all this is. What you do with that, that’s what makes you special.”

“Don’t you get it? With this, anyone can be a hero.”

“Not just anyone, Trevor. You. You got this gift for some reason. Not me, not the others. You. Did all those memories give you the resolve to charge down that hill? Did these memories make you reach out to me? To show me who I could be?”

He opened his mouth but no words came out, so he shut it again.

Nina lectured, “Sure, you’ve got some pretty fancy tools. But you have to use those tools, Trevor. Being a leader isn’t just about what you know or what skills you have, it’s about what you do with all that. Some men would take these gifts and use them for their own gain. You use all this to save your people. I’ve watched you listen to advice when you needed it, or block everything else out when you knew you needed to be decisive. I saw you kneel before me in the rain, Trevor, just so I’d stay. You put aside your ego for the good of the cause. You’d do anything. You’re no fraud, Trevor.”

“I never wanted this. It’s no gift. It’s a curse.”

“That’s why you make such a damn good leader.”

He shook his head; “I’m not the man you think I am. I’m…less.”

“Now you listen to me, because I don’t know what you’re saying. I love you. I don’t love you because you fly alien ships or can shoot good. I love you because you care about people and you cared about me. You brought feelings out in me that I never had before. You believed in me. None of that came from memories,” she pointed toward the mystical object. “I would love you if you weren’t the great leader. I would love you if you were still just selling Chevrolets. And I’ll tell you what…if I could have any wish at all, I would wish that you and I could live in that dream world where we didn’t have to be something; we just lived.”

He hugged her and said, “I’d like that, too.”

*

It would be their last night of being in love.

They lay together in bed and whispered as he massaged her with gentle caresses, as he felt the magnificent strength and warmth of her body. She purred softly at his touch.

He studied her and wondered; he wondered what path the future held for her. He wondered if she would find someone else. If she did, would he be happy for her, or jealous?

They explored one another a last time. A desperate time. They could feel the ticking of the clock; the certainty that dawn marched toward them, that a new day would come and steal away all the days that had come before.

Tears flowed even amidst the sighs of satisfaction. The embraces became frantic clutches.

When finally their love had been fully satiated, they lay together and dared not sleep because then the next moment would be morning. So they whispered more. They whispered as long as they could.

Slowly their tired eyes wavered, their exhausted bodies begged for rest; they slipped stubbornly into sleep.

Time ran out.

Sunset

The June sun rose over the mountains to the east. Its glittering beams reflected across the gentle waters of the lake and shined on the balcony of the mansion.

Trevor Stone stood at the glass doors watching the sunrise. How he hated to see it.

Nina Forest emerged from the bedroom and glided to him with a blanket wrapped around her body. It draped to the floor as if a gown.

She shared the view and said, “You’re up early.”

Trevor, dressed in khaki cargo pants and a black shirt, kept his eyes on that dreadful sunrise.

“It’s going to be a long day.”

When he said no more she walked away mumbling, “I suppose I had better get ready.”

He finally faced her.

“Nina…”

She paused to listen, but what more could be said? They had said it. Whispered it. Cried it all last night.

She flashed a soft, sad smile then continued on to the bedroom. Trevor returned his gaze to the view.

Jon Brewer knocked at the half-open hallway door then walked across the room and stood by Trevor’s side.

“Everything is set.”

Trevor did not even blink.

Jon stepped closer.

“Are you okay?”

Trevor considered.

What a question. What was the answer?

He told a transparent lie in a monotone voice without pulling his eyes from the glow on the horizon: “Sure I’m okay. Just another day of walking the path. Another day of doing what I’m supposed to do; of being a link in the chain. Just another day.”

Jon swallowed, glanced around, then returned from whence he had come. His footfalls echoed on the wooden floor.

Duty called. Trevor followed Jon toward the hall. Half way across the room, he stopped and turned to view the rising sun one more time…

…The captured alien shuttle now named “Eagle One” flew lead with two more of the magnificent crafts on its flanks, all three flying south through the rays of morning. The nose cone pushed through banks of misty white clouds drifting beneath a blue sky.

Inside the cockpit, Nina Forest felt as if she were surrounded by that blue sky, feeling as if it were her nose pushing through the clouds.

An illusion, of course, constructed by the navigation goggles.

She had manned the controls since take off and had not stopped smiling the entire trip. Trevor observed from the co-pilot’s seat, sharing her excitement.

“This is amazing,” she repeated for about the one-hundredth time. “I’ve never…never flown anything like this.”

Dunston flew Eagle Two in the formation. His voice announced the end of the journey: “Approaching the LZ. Ground team reports area secure.”

Trevor pushed the transmit button on the control panel.

“Eagles Two and Three, give us a bulls eye to land on.”

Nina jumped, “Wh-what? You’re going to let me land?”

“Your last lesson…”

…Garrett “Stonewall” McAllister watched the flight of ships approach from the north. Scattered around him lay the remains of The Order’s abandoned outpost: blast craters, crumbled walls, and destroyed doorways left from last autumn’s battle. Human and K9 soldiers guarded the perimeter as well as the inner corridors.

Two Eagles swooped over the outer walls. The vehicles descended parallel to one another into the courtyard and landed, leaving enough space between them for the third airship…

…“Just relax,” Trevor soothed. “You’ve got to see outside but you still have to watch your monitors on the panel.”

Nina did just that, balancing the superimposed image broadcast from the exterior to her eyes with the reality of the control panel inches in front of her.

She wiggled the flight sticks left then right. Her feet worked the pedals to modulate the force of the anti-gravity circuitry.

The ship that had once belonged to aliens but had become a human machine eased toward the Earth and landed perfectly between the other two shuttles. The landing gear bounced gently as the springs absorbed the weight.

Nina sighed and removed the goggles.

“That was amazing. Thank you.”

Trevor told her, “That’s it. There’s nothing more I can teach you.”

“And now I forget it all.”

He shook his head and assured, “You’ll fly one of these again some day. You’re a pilot and this is an amazing plane. You’ll be in that chair again. I know it.”

They stood and moved to the closed cockpit door. She placed a hand on his wrist.

“Thank you for teaching me this; for having faith in me…for…for everything.”

Nina spoke without tears. Neither of them had any tears left to shed.

He touched her cheek.

“You have been…you are the best thing that ever happened to me. I am more when I’m with you. I will be less without you.”

“At least you get to remember it. I won’t even have the memories.”

He told her what he feared to be the truth: “You’re getting the better deal.”

Nina forcefully answered, “You remember. Do you hear? Remember for both of us. It’ll hurt, but don’t let this…don’t let it mean nothing. Please. For who I am now. Don’t forget.”

He took her in his arms one last time and hugged her tight. She squeezed back as hard as her tired muscles allowed.

“I will. I will always remember…”

…Shepherd exited Eagle Two and joined Nina, Trevor, and a K9 escort that included Odin and Tyr. Stonewall led the group into the main building.

The walls that had seemed damp and alive to Trevor last year now felt stale and dead. Whatever pseudo-life they once held, Jon’s raid had exorcised. However, Johnny reported success in finding the enzyme needed to chase away the parasite in Nina’s head.

Grenadiers and soldiers lined the route. Portable lights and generators carved patches of light and dark. Bones and decayed flesh marked where The Order’s defenders fell last year.

Stonewall brought them to a room with a low ceiling. Small compartments lined one wall in front of which stood a table apparently grown from the floor. Trevor recognized the kind.

Reverend Johnny beckoned Nina, “Rest here my dear.”

“Do I need to get undressed or something?”

Johnny shook his head ‘no.’

“You will be on unconscious for a few seconds as we apply the counter agent. The devilish thing that has housed itself in your person will dissolve almost instantaneously and evaporate into nothingness.”

Trevor helped her ease onto the slab. He held her hand. Reverend Johnny produced a medicine bottle of chloroform.

“This will start your journey,” he poured a dab on a cloth and reached toward her. “Breathe deeply.”

Trevor grabbed Johnny’s wrist and found Nina’s warm blue eyes one last time.

“Goodbye.”

She smiled nervously and squeezed his hand tight.

Trevor released Johnny’s wrist and allowed the doctor to continue his work.

The Rev spoke as Nina breathed the anesthetic. “O LORD, hear my prayer, listen to my cry for mercy; in your faithfulness and righteousness come to my relief.”

She breathed deeply, her eyes closed, and her body grew still. Her hand went limp in Trevor’s grip. He let go.

Johnny extracted a line—about the size of a garden hose—from one of the compartments. At the end pointed a thin needle, the sight of which sent a shiver along Trevor’s spine.

“What is that?”

“It is The Order’s version of a hypodermic needle. The incision is tiny, almost microscopic. Yet, it will inject the counter enzyme directly into the implant. However, if she were awake she would feel intense pain. I believe it is designed for pain, to be honest. That is the way of The Order; pain and misery.”

Trevor swallowed hard and accepted the Rev’s explanation. Still, he hated the idea of such an ugly thing touching his Nina.

Shepherd stepped forward. He would be the only face she knew when the deed finished.

Johnny pressed the needle into the side of her head. Trevor heard a slight sound of liquid running. After a few seconds, he withdrew the vile contraption.

“It is done.”

Johnny used a cloth to wipe the tiniest hint of blood from Nina’s scalp. Trevor saw no mark or scar; no wound whatsoever. Nothing left behind; no trace.

The men hovered over her for several minutes until she stirred. Her eyelids flickered, and then opened to see Shepherd standing overhead.

Nina tried to sit but wavered and nearly fell from the table. He steadied her balance.

“Shep? Wh-what? What is happening?”

Nina saw others in the room. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at them one by one.

Trevor found her blue eyes. Her icy blue eyes.

She returned his stare and asked, “Do I know you?”

He wore a stoic face, shook his head slightly, and answered through clenched teeth.

“No.”

“C’mon, easy does it,” Shep encouraged her to carefully step off the table. “This way,” he said and she followed on wobbling legs.

Trevor stared at the empty space on the table…

…The Eagles’ anti-gravity circuits pushed off the earth and propelled all three ships skyward. The craft merged into formation and flew away from The Order’s empty base.

Once they had cleared the outer walls, the charges placed throughout the dead complex detonated. Explosions ripped one after another after another. Destruction came in a series of blasts. Burning debris spew into the air like a volcanic eruption. Walls crumbled.

Still more detonations followed. They would leave no piece of the place standing. No memory. No tribute. No clue. Nothing would be left of that nest of misery and torment.

The sound of the explosions roared like an angry, forlorn voice shouting toward the heavens. The flames consumed everything. Fireballs rolled skyward. Complete destruction. Total annihilation.

Disintegration.

*

Trevor did not fly home. He turned the ship over to another pilot and sat alone in the passenger area with only Tyr for company, curled in a ball by his Master’s side.

He had promised to remember, and remember he did. He remembered seeing her sleeping on the bed in the guestroom…only to have her nearly break his neck. He remembered the furl of her brow the time she had tried to outwit him with hand signals …and the shock on her face when he announced he could fly an Apache.

He remembered changing his morning habits to catch a glimpse of her at breakfast…he remembered her in the rain storm the night she tried to leave and how that scared him…then the overwhelming desire to bare his feelings to her and the joy of seeing those feeling returned.

The disaster of their initial date but she had laughed…the night they made love for the first time…finding comfort in her arms after the disaster at the gateway…the fantasy that was New Year’s Eve as they had stood on the balcony and felt the world belonged to them.

Memories of a dream…

…Trevor marched to the command center and shut the doors.

Nina Forest—the latest newcomer to the estate—had walked off with Shepherd after they landed. Shep had a lot of explaining to do. He had to tell her a lot of things. There were nearly as many things he could not tell her.

As the day went on, he picked at dinner but could not eat. He tried to nap in an empty bed but her scent remained on the pillow. Instead, he stood on the balcony as the sunset behind the mansion bringing the darkness of a new night.

*

Shepherd pushed open the door to Nina’s apartment. Odin darted inside and slumped into his favorite corner.

“This is your place; you’ve been living here since last fall.”

Nina stepped in to a stranger’s living room with a stranger’s furniture.

“Here, huh? This is too much,” she meant all the day’s revelations.

He rested his hands on her shoulders.

“I know. It’s going to take some time. You need to get a good night’s sleep. All your stuff is here. You know how to reach me.”

Nina pointed toward the Elkhound.

“This dog is mine?”

“K9,” Shep corrected. “He’s not so much yours as he is a friend. You can trust him.”

She had so many more questions, even after Shep spent hours telling stories. Yet even she knew her mind could take only so much. The rest would have to wait.

“I ‘reckon I’ll be back in the morning. Everything is okay. You’re safe here. Just…just try and get some sleep.”

He smiled one more time, nodded, and then descended the outside stairs toward the driveway. Nina watched him go then closed the door.

She had no idea where to begin or what to do, so she strolled around the living room snooping for signs: signs that this unfamiliar place could possibly be her home.

Nina found weapons and tactical outfits and other clothes in the closet; clothes in her size but she doubted she would ever wear anything like the black party dress hanging there.

Something caught her eye. A light from a cabinet on the far end of the living room. She stepped over there and leaned close. The light came from a button. She pushed it.

The speakers of the stereo came to life and played a melancholy melody.

I’m always walkin’ after midnight, searchin’ for you…

What is this? Is it…the least bit…familiar?

No. She had never heard this song before.

Still…nice. Sad but kind of sweet. It made her feel a little better but, at the same time, it gave her a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. She did not understand; she wasn’t hungry. Could she be getting sick?

She stood there…listening…wondering.

I go out walkin’ after midnight,

Out in the moonlight,

Just hopin’ you may be

Somewhere a-walkin’ after midnight, searchin’ for me…

Time

The Humvee sped along the Cross Valley Expressway. Two escort vehicles followed at a respectful distance.

Trevor sat in the passenger’s seat meandering through pages of reports, updates, and proposed plans attached to a clipboard. Jon Brewer drove the car and Tyr rode in the rear.

Jon did not typically serve as Trevor’s chauffeur, but they had been in the middle of a meeting when Dante’s urgent call had been piped through to the new meeting hall in the basement of the mansion.

Dante refused to explain the emergency, forcing Trevor to the road. With the new autumn offensive only two weeks away, Trevor and Jon could not afford to miss meeting time. Therefore, Jon volunteered to drive them from the estate to meet Dante in Kingston.

Trevor smiled and read from one of the reports.

“Yep. Omar’s got the coal plant one-hundred percent on line. That should put the lights on in Wilkes-Barre permanently. Told you he’d do it. You owe me five bucks.”

“I’ll admit it, I was wrong. Still, would have been nice if he had gotten the power back when that heat wave tore through.”

Stone remembered that heat wave in July. Air-conditioned rooms had been at a premium during that second summer in the post-Armageddon world; a summer that had begun with him losing Nina, but also saw the addition of hundreds more people to the community after finding and destroying a line of Red Hand camps by the New York state border.

It seemed the more they accomplished the more the accomplishments rolled in. Trevor knew things changed at Five Armies, but he had not expected things to change so fast. The August census showed the community had grown to five hundred people. Just as Stonewall had said, there were pockets of humanity out there waiting for a leader.

Nonetheless, the overall survival rate appeared to be somewhere between a half percent and two percent of the pre-Armageddon population, meaning they still found many more dead bodies than live ones.

“Okay, so Prescott says Chamberlain Munitions is back on line, too” Trevor read from another page as the Humvee drove along.

Jon echoed what the report revealed: “Omar’s been able to crank out some of the raw materials with that matter-maker thingy, so we’ve started production on bullets and light artillery pieces at the Chamberlain plant.”

“But Scranton isn’t secure yet.”

“No, we turned the Chamberlain complex into a fortress. Besides, most of the baddies in Scranton are small stuff. Nothing that’s a big deal. We can clear it out in a week or two once we get enough bullets.”

Trevor shook his head in disappointment. Still, he knew he should know better than to try and move too quickly. The last year—the first year—of the fight taught him that while bold moves would be necessary on occasion, patience would be necessary just as often.

“So you think we should clear Scranton before we launch the big push?” Trevor asked his lead General. “What does Shep say?”

“Shep says his folks are ready to go at any time.”

Trevor knew one of Shep’s ‘folks’ was Nina. Shep oversaw what would soon be the ‘southern command.’ Nina fought at his side. They had built a base outside the mountain top city of Hazleton to the south. That meant Trevor did not see Nina around the estate much any more.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Trevor returned his focus to the important stuff.

“Does he have enough bullets to clear Hazleton? Can he do that?”

Jon answered, “We got the Gentex plant up in Carbondale running. We found all the plans for the contracts those guys had with the Marines before ‘all this.’ Shep’s got the first batch of ballistic armor and helmets from there.”

Trevor knew Carbondale to be a small town north of Scranton. He knew that the Gentex facility had also been turned into a fortress.

“I didn’t ask you about helmets and body armor. I asked you about bullets.”

“Shep thinks he’s got enough.”

“Do you think he’s got enough?”

“Um…not yet. Give it another week. Push the launch back to October.”

Trevor sighed, nodded his head, and made a note on the report.

“Oh yeah,” Jon thought of something. “Eva Rheimmer says she needs more human guards for the new farms.”

“What? She’s already got, like, a hundred K9s.”

“Yeah, well, she’s got like a dozen farms now.”

That surprised Trevor.

“A dozen? I thought it was ten.”

“She found two more outside of Center Moreland, both with big corn fields.”

“Fully manned?”

“Yep. Families and farmhands. Of course they were happy to be a part of our big family when we gave them medicine and gasoline.”

“But?” Trevor sensed a ‘but’.

“But they need protection, too. Lots of weird things out there in the countryside.”

Trevor said, “Sure, because we’ve been chasing all the weird things out of the cities. Guess you can’t have everything. Hey, this exit.”

Trevor pointed to the ‘Kingston’ ramp off the expressway.

“Where am I going again?”

“Rutter Ave. Just get off on Route Eleven, hang a right, then hang a left.”

Trevor knew the way because he had traveled it often in the days before Armageddon. Ashley had lived in Kingston not far from Rutter Ave.

Dante had summoned them to what had been an optometrist’s clinic in the old world. Why he had summoned them remained a mystery.

Trevor returned the conversation to their on-the-fly meeting.

“Stonewall still up in Honesdale?”

“Yeah, still working out the details with those people up there. Last time he checked in, he said there’s at least another two hundred people in and around there. They had rebuilt their town, a little. Still, not much in the way of resources. They’re itching to be a part of us.”

“Gunna be tough. They’re sort of isolated up there.”

Trevor knew Honesdale to be a tiny, remote town, a good forty miles as the crow flies to the northeast of Wilkes-Barre. However, as he mentally examined the map he realized that Scranton and Carbondale marked steps between the estate and Honesdale.

“Maybe we can clear some outposts between Gentex and them. Kind of make, I dunno, islands between us and them. Then start clearing everything out in-between as we get more manpower.”

“Not a bad idea,” Jon answered as they came to the end of the off-ramp and swerved onto Route 11. “We haven’t spotted any type of big, organized armies out there. So if we’re just worrying about the little stuff—like Mutants and predators—we can build up hard points and wait until we’ve got more strength.”

“You’re a genius Jon.”

“I thought I was an asshole.”

“Yeah, that too.”

Trevor paged through more reports. The council he had created to help guide planning and coordinate efforts started to create a bureaucracy. That, in turn, created more paperwork. Trevor feared the whole save-the-world thing was going to get a lot more complicated.

Jon pointed out: “Manpower could be tough. Not everyone wants to be a fighter.”

Trevor recalled the rage that had carried his ragtag force to victory at Five Armies. Rage he had inspired. His gift, or so it seemed.

“I think you’ll be surprised. People are sick of hiding and running. If we keep cranking out fatigues, army boots, and Kevlar we’ll find people to wear em’.”

“I hope you’re right ‘cause like wow, you’ve got some big plans, Trev. We’re going to need a shitload of people. And guns. And tanks. And planes. And—”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Watch where you’re going. Turn left here.”

“Speaking of which, Prescott has put together a proposal for standardized training and we’re making a big list of places that might have supplies to be scavenged. You know, armories, army bases, shit like that. A lot of them are pretty far out and who knows what’ll be left there.”

“We’ll find what we need,” Trevor guessed. “When it started the US Military got surprised. I think there’s a lot of shit out there just waiting to be found because no one got a chance to use it.”

The Humvee drove through a residential neighborhood where trees lined the streets. Trevor knew that in less than a month the leaves on those trees would change colors and die. Another winter loomed but this time they would weather it much easier.

“So where am I—hold on, I see.”

They both saw the commotion ahead. Several police vehicles—now a part of Dante Jones’ Internal Security apparatus—and a crowd of K9s loitered in the parking lot of what had once been a large eye care clinic. Before that, the building had been a new car dealership; hence, the big glass windows in front and fashionable skylights visible on the roof.

The lead Humvee pulled near the front door and stopped. The escorts did the same.

Trevor and Jon made to leave the vehicle, but the crackle of Jon’s radio stopped Brewer.

“Mister Brewer…this is Omar and I am needing to discuss a matter with you promptly.”

Jon rolled his eyes and waved Trevor to go ahead without him.

Stone did just that, hearing the start of the radio communication as he walked away: “Yes, Omar?”

“It is so very nice for you to tell me what to make with my machines because most certainly you are the only one who needs anything. I just sit around all the time doing nothing waiting for you to give me something to do…”

Omar’s sarcasm faded from earshot as Dante hurried from the building to meet Trevor.

“You better have dragged me out here for a good reason,” Trevor said.

“Trev, look, first thing you got to know, this wasn’t here a few days ago.”

“What?”

“I think I just better show you.”

He followed his friend inside. Light filled the interior from both the big atrium-like windows set along the roof and a series of portable lights arranged by Dante’s men, most of whom dressed in policemen’s garb.

Trevor noted that both Reverend Johnny and Dr. Maple walked through the building, too. However, before he could speak to either of them, another sight grabbed Trevor’s eyes: big blobs of green goo. Blobs nearly as big as and shaped similar to coffins laying in a chaotic manner throughout the building.

A sort of left over burning smell filled the place, as if something had been overcooked an hour before.

“What—what in God’s name?”

Trevor stopped and peered close at one, then another. He saw people inside each. Naked people lying still with their eyes shut.

“Trevor, we patrol this area real good. These weren’t here until—I dunno—yesterday?”

Trevor’s head swiveled side-to-side examining the encased bodies.

Dante told him, “There’s more in other buildings nearby. We’re looking at something like three thousand and we’re still counting.”

“My God, these poor people. What kind of creature does this?”

“I don’t know what kind of creature does this,” Dante dropped a bombshell, “but they’re still alive.”

“What? Still alive?”

Dante nodded his head and touched one of the sarcophagi.

“Johnny has already pulled two people out. We just get them out of this goo shit and they’re fine.”

Trevor shook his head, puzzled.

“You’re sure none of this was here until today?”

“Look, man, K9s sweep this area every few days and I’ve got guys who live in this neighborhood. No. None of this was here.”

Trevor chewed on that answer.

“But there’s something else you got to see. I’m not sure how to do this, so I’m just going to show you.”

Dante grabbed his friend’s hand and pulled him through the office building. Everywhere they walked, they saw more of the things. They rounded a corner and moved behind a partition that had once separated the billing department from the front counter.

Dante led his friend to one of the green things and pointed.

Trevor leaned over, squinted, and inspected the contents of the container.

His eyes widened. His heart raced.

It was Ashley.

Ashley Trump.

END BOOK ONE

Tony DeCosmo, July 22, 2004

Next: Beyond Armageddon Book II: Empire

Table of Contents

BEYOND ARMAGEDDON

Book I: Disintegration

Best Plans

Shadows

Chaos

The Old Man

Night

Fugitive

Paradigm Shift

The South Side Suicide Club

Nina Forest

Stonewall

Reconnaissance

Raid

Fury

Red Rain

Revelations

Betrayal

The Order

Torment

Release

Storm

Redcoats

The Battle of Wilkes-Barre

Counter Attack

Farewell

Walking After Midnight

Round Trip

Destruction

Sweet Dreams

Gathering Thunderheads

Warning Signs

Contact

The Battle of Five Armies

Last Stand

Secrets

Sunset

Time